Of Family, Friends and Football
by julien-schu
Summary: In which Gilbert, Francis and Antonio play 'the most inane footy game in history', dragging others along with them.
1. Part 1: Die Mannschaft

**Author's Note: **So someone wanted something that had Gilbert, Francis, Antonio _and_ Arthur _and_ 'the most inane footy game in history'. Here we go then.

* * *

**Of Family, Friends and Football**

**Part One: Die Mannschaft**

It was ten when Ludwig returned home. He made his way up the stairs and into the hallway, and then peered at the light slipping through the crack of the door to Gilbert's room. Was Gilbert home?

Ludwig knocked on the door. "Gilbert?" he said, but there was no answer.

That meant Gilbert was either already asleep (unlikely, since it was too early), or he was just listening to some metal band with his headphones on as he updated his blog. If it were indeed the latter, he was thankful that at least his brother was not singing along. His brother's usual vocal antics were horribly off-key, Ludwig opined, despite Gilbert's claims otherwise.

Ludwig knocked a second time, and again there was no answer. He opened the door and stepped inside his brother's room.

Gilbert's room was an enigma by itself; nowhere else would anyone find a place that somehow managed to (successfully, Gilbert insisted) incorporate the unholy cabal of contemporary furniture, Hieronymus Bosch _and_ fluffy yellow chicks in its interior design.

Then again, no one else probably wanted to even _think_ of such a thing.

The bed was unoccupied, and so was the chair at Gilbert's desk. His brother must have gone out and simply forgot to turn off the lights again. He switched them off, shut the door and went back downstairs.

The empty room meant Gilbert was probably out drinking with Francis or Antonio, or both. And since it was a Friday night, that meant Gilbert was on his usual crusade of drinking every single German under the table and getting himself completely intoxicated in the process. Getting Gilbert to take a taxi back home was out of the question, since no taxi driver in his right mind would want a drunk Gilbert as a fare.

Fortunately, most of the time his brother's friends – well, actually just Antonio – would have the sense and not to mention be somewhat sober enough to haul an inebriated (though triumphant) Gilbert home, or at least would let Gilbert stay over at his place for the night. Antonio would then call Ludwig early in the morning to pick his brother up, since 'Lovino would throw a fit when he comes over for lunch and sees Gilbert sprawled on the sofa!' Antonio would say.

Telling himself to quit worrying for his brother (or rather, of what his brother was capable of doing), Ludwig switched on the porch light for Gilbert before he went to bed.

--x--

Gilbert was indeed at one of his favourite pubs, and both Francis and Antonio were with him. Francis had brought a bottle of wine for all of them to sample, an activity Gilbert participated in rather enthusiastically before he went back to his usual dose of beer. Then it was the usual exchange of (horribly exaggerated) stories and teasing. At least, until they somehow started arguing.

"I don't know, Gilbert," Antonio commented, "I guess Francis is right on this one."

"That – that's always how it is!" Gilbert protested, slamming down his beer mug on the table.

"What is?" Antonio asked, confused.

"Every time we try to decide on something – or even _do_ something, you always end up taking his side!"

"Ah, and where is the harm in that? I thought you liked being all by your awesome self," Francis baited.

"Of course I do! I'm much more awesome than both of you put together!"

"So what's upsetting you then?" Antonio asked. He frowned in concern. "Gilbert, are you feeling all right?"

Actually, Gilbert thought that perhaps Antonio had something there. Maybe there was some element of truth in that _'Bier auf Wein, das lasse sein, Wein auf Bier, das rat' ich dir!'_ rhyme Ludwig firmly believed in after all. Gilbert certainly felt a little less awesome than usual, and it was not like him to get annoyed so easily. But admitting it? Of course not.

"I'm fine!" he insisted.

"Actually, Gilbert," Francis observed, "I think Antonio's right–"

"See? You're doing it again. It's always Francis and Antonio, or Antonio and Francis. Not Gilbert and Francis, and not Gilbert and Antonio!"

Antonio was now genuinely confused, while Francis had some trouble deciding whether he should be worried or irritated at his friend's outburst. He settled for the latter.

"So what are you going to do about it, _mon ami?_ Challenge us to a duel? No, don't bother." Francis waved his hand in a haughty gesture. "Duels are so... old-fashioned."

"A fistfight is starting to sound like a good idea right now," Gilbert growled.

"Your brother would throw a fit if you start another brawl in the streets again," Antonio pointed out.

"West throws a fit if I do anything," Gilbert grumbled. "Fine! We'll settle this in another way! I challenge the both of you to...." He looked frantically around the pub, trying to find a quick inspiration when his gaze landed on the TV in the far corner.

Perfect.

"A football match!" he announced, smirking.

Both Antonio and Francis blinked at their friend before they said in unison, "What?"

"You heard me! We'll have a match next Saturday!"

"But Gilbert," Antonio said, "football? And two against one? That doesn't sound fair. Especially since you're now angry and saying how it's always the two of us leaving you alone."

"And?"

"So maybe you should get someone else to play against us too, just to make it fair – and Francis, why are you kicking my leg?"

Francis made an exasperated sound. "Antonio, you can be horribly dense sometimes, you know that?" He had hoped for an easy win in this ridiculous football game Gilbert insisted on, but Antonio just had to open his mouth. His friend may have problems remembering just how vicious Gilbert could be, but _he_ certainly did not.

"Dense?"

"Oh, never mind. It's not like Gilbert would be able to actually find someone to agree playing with him."

"If that's the way you want to do it, then fine! I'll find someone to come along, just because you insisted! He can be a witness to my awesomeness in kicking both your asses!" Gilbert announced, and then chugged down the remaining beer in his mug before thumping it down on the table. "See you next Saturday, losers!" he snarled and left the pub, slamming the door shut in what would have been a dramatic gesture, if he had not tripped and fell flat on his face soon right after. The pub's regulars were somewhat used to these displays, so the impressive amount of cursing and swearing that followed did not bother them one bit.

Francis made a show of rubbing his temples. "He's completely smashed, isn't he," he said wryly.

Antonio agreed. "Very much so."

They both looked at each other and sighed.

"Do you think he's serious?" Francis asked. "I thought he looked serious enough."

Antonio shrugged. "Probably. We might as well show up next Saturday." He brightened. "We still need to finish that bottle of wine you brought, though."

_"Santé?"_

_"Salud."_

--x--

After a few wrong turns, Gilbert reached home. Upon reaching his room, he kicked off his shoes and ungraciously plopped himself in his bed. So Antonio and Francis thought he could not find a teammate to play against them? He would show them otherwise.

But who would be his partner for the match? He certainly was not worried about losing, since he firmly believed there was no way _he_ would lose, but it would be rather nice if he could find someone that knew him well enough to be a decent teammate.

His brother, maybe? No, boring, goody-two-shoes West would only give him a lecture instead of putting on a football kit and boots.

Maybe the whole thing was not a good idea after all. Gilbert knew he was awesome, but he admitted that he was also capable of making mistakes. Still, he consoled himself, at least they were _awesome_ mistakes.

He frowned. Wait, that did not sound quite right.

"Ah, screw it," he grumbled. He would figure out something in the morning, when he was not groggy and would be back to his usual awesome self. Now he just needed to update his blog and go to sleep. He climbed out of bed and went to his laptop, typed for a bit and then climbed back in bed, cackling softly to himself.

--x--

Ludwig finished getting dressed, while thinking of what to prepare for breakfast for him and his brother. Eggs and ham for him, _Katerfrühstück_ – a hangover breakfast of rollmops – for Gilbert, and maybe pancakes, if his brother was not too irritating when he woke up.

Speaking of his brother, Gilbert had returned home earlier than usual last night, much to Ludwig's surprise. He did however, sound just as intoxicated as usual though. Still, Ludwig was glad that at least he did not have to go anywhere early in the morning to haul Gilbert home.

He glanced at his watch. Seven; it was still much, much too early for Gilbert to be awake. Out of habit, Ludwig sat down at his computer desk and checked Gilbert's blog, just in case his brother had done something completely insane last night that might involve lawsuits which he needed to know about.

His brother had indeed blogged a new entry last night:

_Friday:_

_I was so cool tonight! I'm going to kick Francis' and Antonio's not-awesome asses next Saturday at football!_

Ludwig blinked, confused. "Football?"

It seemed relatively harmless enough, but then again, this was _Gilbert._

Ludwig sighed. He would just find out the details later. Now he just needed to start on making breakfast.

* * *

**Additional Notes:**

i. _Die Mannschaft_ - the nickname of the German national football team; literally 'The Team'

ii. _'Bier auf Wein, das lasse sein, Wein auf Bier, das rat' ich dir!'_ - German advice on drinking; basically means drinking beer before wine is fine, but drink wine before beer and you're screwed

iii. _Katerfrühstück _- literally, hangover breakfast


	2. Part 2: The Three Lions

**Author's Note: **This thing's getting longer and longer, isn't it?

* * *

**Of Family, Friends and Football**

**Part Two: The Three Lions**

"Morning," Ludwig greeted his brother, who had finally deigned to crawl out of bed and trudge downstairs and into the kitchen for breakfast. He checked his watch; it was ten-thirty, which was considered rather early for Gilbert. "Sleep well?" he asked as Gilbert took a seat.

"Grrhgggmphh," his brother replied, which was Gilbert-hangover-gruntspeak for, 'Shut up, West.'

Gilbert looked two shades paler than normal, his eyes were bloodshot, while his hair, which was already unruly to begin with, looked like a hedgehog that had dived into a vat of bleach for kicks and was now regretting its decision while clinging in agony to the Prussian's head. In short, he looked like a right proper mess, as per their usual Saturday morning routine dictated.

Ludwig placed the plate of rollmops in front of his brother, who eyed it for a few seconds before he started eating. It did not take long for the man to finish it all and to drink a large mug of coffee.

"Pggghrrmm?" Gilbert grunted. That meant, 'No pancakes?'

"They'll be done in a minute. Have some more coffee." Ludwig pondered if he should ask Gilbert about that football game he read on his brother's blog. He decided that he would do so after Gilbert has had his fill of pancakes, since his brother would be more coherent then.

"You're playing football next Saturday?" he asked about twenty minutes (and Gilbert's two helpings of pancakes and three large mugs of coffee) later. "I read your blog," he explained when Gilbert gave him a look.

"Oh, that." Fortunately, Gilbert had regained his usual vocal capabilities. There was only so much grunting Ludwig could understand. "Just something for the weekend."

"Will it involve anything illegal?"

Gilbert snorted. "Don't be such a respectable bastard, West. It's a football game. We're going to run around the field chasing and kicking a ball, not somebody's head." He brightened. "Hey, now _that_ would be–"

"Don't even think about it," Ludwig interrupted.

"Spoilsport."

--x--

"Who the hell am I gonna team up with?" Gilbert muttered as he glared at the atlas in front of him, eyeing the countries, all printed in different colours on the page.

Feliciano? Nope – the kid was undeniably cute, but was too scatter-brained. The kid's foul-tempered brother was probably better at football, but it would take a lot of convincing to get Lovino to play in his team, and as awesome as he was, he did not have the time nor the patience to do so. Roderich? The very mental image of that aloof man in a football kit was enough to send Gilbert into hysterics.

He traced one finger over all the countries on the European continent, automatically dismissing this one and that one for some reason or other.

Can't play football.

Too damned scary.

Too damned scared to play football. Ivan would undoubtedly show up if he played anyway. Actually, scratch that whole lot over there for the same reason.

Would show up for the game in a skirt. Wait, this could be a good thing – NO.

Would sleep throughout the whole game.

Would just shoot everyone.

Too short.

On and on it went, until he ran out of countries and had to start over. Hours passed, and still he could not decide.

Maybe he should just close his eyes and randomly point at a country on the map?

No, he needed to find a teammate who had proven himself worthy to give Francis and Antonio a right proper beating. And preferably someone he had worked with, since there was not much time until the game.

But who?

He sighed, leaned back as he looked at the map again, and then realised that he had only concentrated on the Continent. Then he grinned.

"Perfect," he muttered.

--x--

Gilbert has always been a few slices short of a full loaf of _Vollkornbrot_, but he was not _completely_ stark raving mad. But after observing his brother's antics in the living room, Ludwig was no longer sure.

Normally, every Saturday, after breakfast Gilbert would just laze around the house watching TV or playing video games, or if he were feeling a bit restless, would go out for a run in the park (or so he claimed). "Picking up chicks," he had answered in an atrocious imitation of Alfred's accent with his trademark smirk when Ludwig once asked what was he _really_ doing there, and to this day Ludwig was not quite sure if Gilbert meant 'chicks' of the 'sexy thing' kind, or the actual 'chirp chirp, tweet tweet' avian kind. He had decided that it would be better for his mental health not to know.

But not this Saturday.

This Saturday, instead of his usual routine, Gilbert borrowed an atlas from Ludwig's study, made himself comfortable on the sofa in the living room, and stared at one of the maps. Just... stared.

Even lunch was a considerably muted, and thus, not the usual migraine-inducing affair. Gilbert had simply wolfed down everything on his plate, drank his usual glass of beer and went back to the living room and the atlas on the coffee table without a single word.

Gilbert had been staring at the atlas in front of him for a very long while now. The large book was opened up to a map of Europe, and his brother was staring – no, now it was glaring – at it with such a fury Ludwig wondered if Gilbert were making plans to go to war.

His gaze would be directed at one part of the map and he would either frown, look thoughtful, or on one occasion (Ludwig had caught Gilbert muttering something about Roderich at the time), laugh hysterically, pounding one fist on the coffee table. The routine would be repeated, again and again, and for the life of him Ludwig could not figure out just what on earth was his brother doing.

Whatever it was, Gilbert was at it for hours. Ludwig was amazed that his brother could actually concentrate on something – whatever inane thing it was – for that long. These days, the few things that had Gilbert's full attention for more than thirty minutes were limited to video games, drinking someone under the table, or annoying random nations.

Insane or not, Gilbert's unusual behaviour and the resulting calm atmosphere in the house made it easier for Ludwig just to sit down and read the newspaper, or even finish some of the paperwork he brought back home. Normally Gilbert would scowl and try to drag him away from 'that boring bureaucratic crap' and complain loudly on how his brother was turning into a paper-pusher, forcing Ludwig to either lock Gilbert out of the house or lock himself in his study. Usually it was the former; Gilbert would then sulk for a bit before he went to Roderich's to annoy the Austrian, but Ludwig knew that Roderich's ex-wife would be around to discipline his brother with her frying pan if he tried to do something stupid.

Ludwig told himself not to get used to this kind of peace and quiet, since this was surely a one-time thing. As he predicted, the blissful silence was broken at about five-thirty in the evening when Gilbert finally looked up from the atlas with a triumphant yell, one fist in the air.

Before Ludwig could ask what was going on, Gilbert had grabbed his jacket and ran for the door. "I'm going out! Don't wait up for me, West!" he yelled before the door shut.

--x--

It had taken him a while to get to his destination, since he just had to stop by and drink a few pints (at several different places) along the way, but he finally got there. Cackling softly to himself, he rang the doorbell, and kept on pressing the switch until he heard an angry yell from inside the house.

"Hey!" he greeted with his usual smirk when the door opened.

"Gilbert?" Arthur muttered, rubbing one eye sleepily. "What do you want?" he growled in a voice that would have sent lesser men - and nations - running for cover. Better yet, an underground nuclear shelter.

Of course, since Gilbert was no such lesser entity, he merely ignored Arthur's question and said, "Aren't you gonna let me in?"

"No."

Gilbert was genuinely surprised. Well, he admitted that perhaps Arthur was not exactly _thrilled_ every time he dropped by – but Arthur was a gracious host most of the time, or at the very least, the man was civil towards his awesome self. But not this time. "Why not?"

"It's two in the morning, you blithering idiot!"

Well, that explained why Arthur was only in his pyjamas and dressing gown. But still. "So?"

"Oh for pity's sake." Arthur tried to close the door, but Gilbert pushed it open again, nearly driving it smack into Arthur's nose.

"Hey! Let me in so I can tell you about this awesome thing you need to take part in!"

"Oh god."

Gilbert took that as an indication to elaborate, so he continued, "I've got to play in a football game next week and I want you to join my side."

The pressure on the door eased somewhat. "You want me to what?"

"Join me in a football game."

"A football game? Whatever for?" Arthur actually sounded curious.

Gilbert scratched his head, trying to figure out the best way to explain the situation without Arthur blowing his top again. Finding none, he decided to settle for the truth. "I sort of got into an argument and the only way to settle it is by winning a football match."

"Good for you," Arthur said and tried to shut the door again. Gilbert prevented him from doing so by wedging one foot in the doorway, much to Arthur's protests, which soon turned into a series of furious threats and insults.

Okay, perhaps that was not the best way to go about it. Nevertheless, Gilbert knew what would make Arthur pay attention to him again – provided he could get a word in and interrupt Arthur's tirade.

"–and what makes you think that I'd participate in–"

"You'd get to play against Francis!"

"–one of your ridiculous – _what did you say?"_

Gilbert smirked and repeated, "I said, you'd get to play against Francis." He then added with as much innocence as he could muster – which was basically nil, "If you're interested in joining my team, that is."

Arthur's expression changed, and Gilbert knew that look on his face. It was the look Arthur had before the man sank Antonio's armada. It was the look that was plastered on Arthur's face when he went on that massive colonising spree and forged his own Empire. It was the look Arthur had when they were both allies centuries ago – mostly just so Arthur could have a chance to bloody Francis' nose back then.

It was the same predatory look Gilbert had right before he plunged into battle – but of course, he admitted with a mental smirk, _he_ looked more awesome.

There was a particularly evil smile on Arthur's face as the man opened the door. "Come inside for some tea and we'll talk."

Gilbert grinned.

Some time later found both men in Arthur's sitting room, Arthur now properly dressed and offering his guest a cup of tea. Gilbert would have preferred beer any day, but he did not mind tea all that much; after all, old Fritz drank it on occasion. At least Arthur made his tea really strong – builder's tea, Arthur called it – and he might as well humour Arthur's quirks for a bit until he was sure the man would join his side.

"When is this football game of yours anyway?"

"Next Saturday."

"So who else is on the team?"

"You, and the awesome me!"

"And?" Arthur prompted.

"And?" Gilbert echoed.

Arthur slowly put his cup of tea down on the table. "You do know that you need at least eleven players on a footy team, right?"

"Yeah, but we don't need eleven, because the other side has got only two players too! It's just Francis and Antonio!"

Arthur stared at him. "What kind of football are we playing then if it's only two men on a side?"

"I dunno, something like that new indoor football thing, I suppose. Except we're still playing outdoors."

Arthur kept on staring. "What, you mean like _futsal?_ You still need five players on a team for that."

"So? Arthur, we're not going to play in the fuckin' UEFA championships with all the boring rules and qualifying rounds and all that shit! Like I said, it's just a quick way to settle this argument I have with Antonio and Francis."

Arthur sighed. "Then why did you pick, of all things, football? Can't you just have gone with something like tennis or poker or even snakes and ladders?"

"It seemed like an awesome idea at the time. And still is!"

Arthur certainly did not look convinced, for he was muttering something about suffering fools gladly.

Gilbert's patience was wearing thin. He decided to try another approach, "Look, forget it. I'll just ask someone else to join me in kicking Francis' ass - maybe I'll go ask Roderich!" he said and made a show of getting up, even though he was actually eyeing Arthur for the reaction he expected. Sure enough, at the very mention of causing physical harm to Francis' rear end, there was a dangerous glint in Arthur's eyes.

Gilbert smirked. Despite what others thought, he could be really manipulative if he wanted to.

"I didn't say I wouldn't play," Arthur told him, and Gilbert sat back down. "And you're not seriously considering asking Roderich to play football, are you?"

"It was just a thought."

"Can't imagine him playing decent footy."

"Absolutely not. He probably doesn't want to get his clothes dirty."

They both smirked.

"Gilbert, I do have one question though."

"What?"

"When was the last time _you_ played a game of footy? Twenty years ago?"

"I've played lots of times since then!" Gilbert replied, rather too quickly.

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Name one."

"Um."

"Oh for fuck's sake."

"You worry too much. Just leave everything to me, all right?"

"That's what I'm worried about. You can't even organise a piss-up in a brewery, which is one spectacular achievement considering all that beer you've got back home."

Gilbert blinked. "Huh?" Arthur's weird language was confusing sometimes.

"Never mind. I suppose a football game would be a nice break from the usual routine."

Gilbert smirked. "Of course."

Arthur hid a smile behind his teacup. "I'm glad that's settled."

"See you next Saturday?"

"You'll call me with all the details, I trust."

"Sure."

"Next Saturday then."

The wicked grins on the two men's faces as they shook hands were completely identical.

--x--

Ludwig checked his brother's blog that afternoon to find another new entry:

_Sunday:_

_Starting off an awesome day courtesy of the awesome me! I found a teammate (who's not as awesome as I am, but he's all right) and we're gonna kick Francis' and Antonio's asses! Ha!_

_Where the hell are my football boots? West, I know you're at home reading this, so go find them! I want them ready when I get back home for lunch!_

Ludwig sighed.

* * *

**Additional Notes:**

i. The Three Lions – nickname of England's national football team. Comes from the emblem of the team, which features three lions passant guardant

ii. _Vollkornbrot_ – German wholemeal bread

iii. UEFA - Union of European Football Association; the administrative body for European football


	3. Part 3: La Furia Roja

**Author's Note: **Even the notes for this are getting longer.

* * *

**Of Family, Friends and Football**

**Part Three: La Furia Roja**

"Did you find my football boots?" Gilbert asked as he handed his empty plate to Ludwig. The man had returned home a while ago to crawl into his bed for a nap before he finally showed up in the kitchen, freshly showered, and demanded for his lunch.

Ludwig shook his head as he did the dishes. "No, I didn't have time to look. You can use mine though, we're the same size."

"I want that new pair of yours then."

Ludwig shrugged. "Go ahead. And why do you even need training in the first place?"

"Just because I'm awesome doesn't mean I don't make preparations for war, West."

"Gilbert, I hardly think that a football game counts as war–"

"Football _is _war!" Gilbert announced.

Ludwig sighed. There was no point in convincing Gilbert otherwise, so he decided to speak on a more important issue. "Promise me you won't threaten any of the teams in the _Bundesliga_ into practising with you."

"Wait, how did you know–"

"You were talking about it in your sleep." Thank goodness he had gone up to Gilbert's room to check up on his brother. Ludwig mentally congratulated himself for averting another national crisis.

"Why not?" Gilbert almost whined. _Almost._ His brother had always insisted that he was far too awesome to whine.

"Because you'll terrify them into vegetables and the last thing I need is the boss, the DFB _and_ practically the whole country ringing my phone off the hook or flooding my inbox to complain about the whole mess."

"Fine, I won't practise with any of the _Bundesliga_ teams_._"

Ludwig's eyes narrowed. Gilbert had given in far too easily; that could mean only one thing. "That goes for the teams in the Second _Bundesliga _and the Third _Liga_," he added. Gilbert twitched, confirming Ludwig's suspicion that his brother had contingency plans to practice with all the other German football divisions if necessary.

"West! I won't have anyone to train with at that rate!"

"Actually, I think I'll make it more thorough. You can forget about training with _any_ of the teams in all the leagues run by the DFL, the DFB _and_ DFB regional associations. Same goes for the national squad."

_"West!"_ Gilbert _did_ whine that time. "That practically means there's _nobody_ left!"

"Precisely."

"Arthur says he's going to practise with some of his Premier League boys," Gilbert pointed out, half-sulking.

"Yes, but you're not Arthur – wait, did you just say _Arthur?_"

Gilbert nodded.

"So that's where you spent the night. You could have called."

"Stop mothering me, West. I'm a big boy."

Ludwig resisted the urge to say that he was more worried about his brother's infamous talent for causing random destruction wherever he went, rather than for Gilbert's safety _per se. _Instead, he asked, "He's your partner for your game on Saturday? How did you ever convince him to it?"

Gilbert had a sly expression on his face as he answered, "Oh, no one could ever say no to me, West. I am awesome, after all. By the way, suit up."

"What?"

"Since you're not going to let me train with anyone else in the country, you'll have to do instead," Gilbert said in a tone that indicated he was not taking no for an answer. "It's not like you have got anything planned for the day anyway."

"I wanted to do some cleaning–"

"And _I _wanted to train with the _Hertha _boys. Fair is fair, West. Now get changed and let's go."

--x--

It was all for the sake of German football.

Ludwig repeatedly reminded himself that was the sole reason he was going through all this torture.

It was almost like his childhood again; a series of insane training drills, with Gilbert shouting at him like a drill sergeant. He had pointed out earlier that _he_ was not going to be the one playing in Gilbert's ridiculous football game on Saturday and thus, did not see the need of having to go through all the drills. In response, his brother had simply snorted and launched into a self-righteous spiel of 'I raised you better than that' and 'you should take this more seriously' (which was a joke, this coming from _Gilbert)_, not forgetting the usual 'make use of all available opportunities to invade vital regions' (what on earth has _that_ got to do with football?), plus 'football is war!'

He was severely tempted just to forget the whole thing and tell Gilbert off before going back home, but he knew that if he did, Gilbert _would_ decide to run up some unfortunate football club's players to terrorise into training with him.

So here he was, running on the field, desperately trying to keep possession of the ball while his brother tried to tackle him for it. His brother did treat football like a battle; Gilbert was a very aggressive player and Ludwig knew without looking that even with the heavy shin guards he had on, he was black and blue from knee down.

It was all for the sake of German football.

He must have repeated the phrase for at least a hundred times in the past two hours.

German football did _not_ need Gilbert terrorising it into a catatonic state. If only his people knew the full extent of his sacrifice – he winced as Gilbert attempted another tackle, yanking sharply on his jersey – _ow!_

"Gilbert! That was a foul!"

"Was not! That was a clean tackle, West!"

"Since when did clean tackles involve _biting?"_

Gilbert only cackled maniacally in response and headed straight for the goal. Cursing under his breath, Ludwig picked himself up and ran after his brother.

All for the sake of German football.

--x--

His cellular phone rang.

"Hello–" Antonio started to answer, and then blinked at the rapid-fire French from the caller. "Francis, is that you?" he interrupted. Francis must have been extremely upset to talk in his native language at TGV-speed. While Antonio could understand the language quite a bit, Francis' panicky rambling was just too much for him to fully comprehend. "Calm down," he tried to reassure his friend.

_"Mais je te jure que c'est vrai!"_

"Wait, just what's true? What are you talking about?"

"Gilbert and that football game of his! He's actually taking it seriously!"

"I don't get what you mean."

"I meant _seriously_ seriously!"

"... I _still_ don't get what you mean."

Francis made an exasperated noise. "Antonio," he began, "have you given any actual thought to this football challenge of Gilbert's?"

"No?" He was just going to show up in his football gear and play. It was just a simple football game... wasn't it? He scratched the back of his head, puzzled.

"Neither did I. I just thought it would be the usual. You know, both of us would show up, Gilbert would show up alone since no one would want to tag along with him, then he'd sulk for a bit until we feel sorry for the idiot and drag him somewhere for a few pints, he'd get drunk and the next day everything would be back to normal."

That sounded pretty much what Antonio had expected as well. "Go on."

"I dropped by Gilbert's earlier to see if he wanted to go out for a drink, but it turned out he wasn't home. One of the neighbours told me that he saw Gilbert at the local football field, so I went there. Then I saw it with my own eyes!"

"Saw what?"

"I saw him – why hello there, do you want to go out with me some time? If you don't go out with total strangers I'll just introduce myself – sorry Antonio, where was I?" The man must have calmed down quite a bit, now that he was actually hitting on random people on the street as usual.

"You saw Gilbert," Antonio prompted.

"Oh. Yes. Gilbert's training. _Training._ With his brother."

Antonio blinked. "Really?" He just _knew_ Francis was nodding furiously in response.

"Check his blog. He always posts entries on whatever he's doing, so there must be something about the match on his blog by now."

Antonio went into his study, sat at his computer desk and opened his browser. Gilbert had changed Antonio's default home page to point at his blog the last time he came over, so the blog came up instantly.

Sure enough, the topmost entry on the blog was about the match, posted about an hour ago:

_Sunday:_

_Did some training today! Man, was I awesome. _

_My teammate's training too. _

_Together we'll invade French and Spanish vital regions on Saturday! _

Antonio scrolled down a bit and saw that Gilbert had also posted two pictures he had taken with his phone's camera. The first was of a pair of football boots, with the caption of _'My new boots! Eat studs on Saturday, losers!'_ while the second picture was of a smirking Gilbert with one arm around Ludwig, who had a long-suffering expression on his face. Both were wearing football jerseys.

"Well?" Francis asked impatiently.

"You're right. He even posted pictures."

"Do you know what this means?"

"He's managed to get Ludwig to play against us on Saturday?"

"Right! It'll be like WW2 again!"

Technically Antonio was non-belligerent back then, so the whole thing did not bother him too much. But Francis? No wonder he was so upset. However, Antonio doubted that Ludwig would hold any grudge – he was just not that sort of a man.

He was about to reassure Francis of this when the doorbell rang. And the very second right after it rang, his visitor started pounding on the door.

"Just a second, Francis. I need to get the–"

There was the loud crash of the front door being knocked off its hinges, and then an all-too-familiar voice yelling, "How dare you keep me waiting, you bastard!"

"–door."

Antonio sighed. Maybe it was time for him to install an automatic door, like the sliding ones in supermarkets. Or perhaps it would be easier to just forget about fixing the front door altogether and leave the doorway wide open. The recession was bad enough without him having to repair the front door every fortnight or so.

"Antonio?" Francis' voice interrupted his thoughts.

Lovino stomped into view, looking as foul-tempered (yet extremely adorable, a beaming Antonio thought) as usual. "Have you gone deaf? It's bad enough that you're an idiot, but – oh, you're on the phone." Antonio could almost feel the younger man's aura of rage reducing just a _tiny_ bit. "Well, you should have opened the door for me anyway, you bastard."

"Sorry, Lovino," he apologised.

"What? I'm not Lovino!" Francis protested.

"I meant, sorry Francis."

"I'm not Francis! Great, you haven't gone deaf; you're just blind and stupid!" Lovino snapped.

"But I–"

"Hey! Pay attention!" both Francis and Lovino yelled simultaneously.

Antonio could feel a headache forming _and_ more importantly, a potential headbutt and assorted thrown objects coming his way if he did not take the necessary measures. "Sorry Francis, I'll have to call you back!"

Wait, was that a–

Acting purely out of reflex, he ducked. The thrown tomato missed him by a hair and ended up splattering on the wall. Oh well, he had been meaning to change the wallpaper anyway. Maybe he could find a nice red spatter pattern, so that the next time this happened he would not have to bother with cleaning up.

"Why did you dodge? That was a waste of a good tomato, you moron."

"But it's a waste to throw it in the first place, Lovi."

"Not if I wanted to hit your head with it, you bastard. What the hell were you doing anyway?"

Antonio gestured at the computer screen. "Francis told me to look at Gilbert's blog entry about our match on Saturday," he explained.

There was a mildly curious (and undeniably cute, Antonio observed) expression on Lovino's face. The Italian walked towards the computer and peered at the entry in question.

"What's this about a football game?" he asked.

--x--

Lovino stormed out in a fury, leaving his wailing younger brother alone in the house. He loved Feliciano, but there were plenty of occasions where he simply wanted to strangle that whiny brother of his.

His day had started off beautifully; the weather was gorgeous, Antonio had left a crate of Raf tomatoes for him by the door (the idiot must have delivered them at dawn since he could have sworn he heard someone knocking on the door then, but like hell was _he_ going to get out of bed for the moron), and Feliciano had cooked a nice breakfast for them both.

A lovely day, especially since there was not even a whiff of potato bastardness to ruin it. Or so he thought.

Oh no. His brother just had to spoil it for him.

Feliciano was making pasta for dinner when he decided that it would be nice to invite that potato bastard Ludwig (how Lovino hated that name and the – the very potato-ness of it!) over, since he made a bit too much pasta and it would be nice to share.

Lovino told his brother to forget about it.

Feliciano started crying and wailing.

Lovino's resolve lasted for fifteen minutes before he gave in.

Feliciano instantly ceased his tears and zoomed off to call that potato bastard.

Potato bastard did not answer Feliciano's call.

Feliciano tried calling him at his home number and got the answering machine, which told him to leave a message since Ludwig was out playing football with his awesome brother Gilbert and maybe Gilbert would let Ludwig call him back if Gilbert was feeling nice and did not delete all the recorded messages.

Feliciano started wailing about how Ludwig did not invite him to play football.

Lovino's potato bastard-related-bullshit buffer was about to overflow by then, so he simply stomped out of the house, grabbing a few tomatoes to snack on as he headed off to Antonio's.

He had somewhat cooled off a bit when he arrived, but as usual that stupid Antonio took his time to open the door. Served him right for having to fix it again. And served him right for mistaking him for Francis – how could _anyone_ mistake him for that pervert? Oh, anyone but Antonio of course, who was a special class of moron of his own.

When Antonio explained about the football match between him and Francis, and that potato bastard and his brother, Lovino was more than intrigued. He was _really _good at football and this match on Saturday was an opportunity for him to use his skills to kick a few balls right into – well, that annoying potato bastard's balls.

Well, he did not really have anything against Gilbert, but he was related to Ludwig _and_ his diet also consisted of potatoes, reasons Lovino deemed good enough to justify smashing his face in with a well-aimed football.

And if the potato bastards went after him – well, that was Antonio's job, wasn't it? And no, his cheeks were not turning red. Well, they were – but with rage, not embarrassment!

"I want to play in the match," he demanded.

Antonio blinked at him. "You?"

"Yes, or do you think that I'm Francis again, you moron?" he yelled. Also, the tomato he threw _did_ hit Antonio on the head this time.

"But Lovino," Antonio tried to reason with him, tomato juice and gunk dripping all over the man's hair, "why do you want to play? This whole argument never involved you in the first place."

"I don't care about what started it! I want to play on Saturday!" Lovino yelled, smacking Antonio on the head for good measure.

He knew that there was no way Antonio could refuse him, especially when he was in a foul mood; Antonio would try to persuade him otherwise for a bit before babbling about how he looked so cute when he was angry, with his face a bright red just like a tomato, before the man would give in.

"I'll call Francis and ask."

Lovino smirked.

--x--

Gilbert's cellular phone started playing the tune of _Preußens Gloria_, indicating that he had a new text message. He flipped it open, pressed a key, and after a short moment of reading, he sniggered.

Grinning, he hopped to his laptop and started typing a new entry:

_I am so awesome!_

_Those two losers want to meet tomorrow morning at Francis' and 'discuss' the match on Saturday. _

_I bet they're chickening out like the pathetic losers they are! Well I'm not letting them call off the match!_

He then added his favourite icon to the end of the post; a little yellow chick giving the finger. Satisfied, he posted the entry on his blog and went to bed, cackling.

* * *

**Additional notes: **

i. _La Furia Roja_ - the nickname of the Spanish national football team; literally, 'The Red Fury'

ii. _Bundesliga_ - the highest division of the German football league system

iii. Second _Bundesliga_ (_2. Bundesliga_) - the second tier of the German football league

iv. Third _Liga_ (_3. Liga_) - third tier of the German football league

v. DFB - _Deutscher Fußball-Bund _(German Football Association) - governing body of football in Germany

vi. DFL - _Deutsche Fußball-Liga_ (German Football League) - operator of the top two _Bundesligen_

vii. Premier League - also known as the English Premier League or EPL; highest division of the English football league system

ix. _Hertha - Hertha Berliner Sport-Club_ or _Hertha BSC_, a Berlin-based football club currently competing in the _Bundesliga_

x. _Mais je te jure que c'est vrai! - _But I swear it's true!


	4. Part 4: Les Blues

**Author's Note: **Hope you're enjoying this so far.

* * *

**Of Family, Friends and Football**

**Part Four: Les Blues**

Say what you like about Arthur Kirkland, but the man was almost always impeccably dressed. Even though he only had a very short notice of the meeting at Francis' today, he made sure that he would reach the venue on time, stepping off the Eurostar train properly attired like the English gentleman in his neat, conservative ensemble.

Bespoke dark grey suit by Savile Row tailors, Gieves & Hawkes? Check.

Classic light blue shirt with three-button barrel cuff, together with a navy and blue houndstooth silk tie from Turnbull & Asser of Jermyn Street? Check.

Pair of bespoke black capped Oxfords courtesy of John Lobb of St James' Street? Check.

Utterly pissed off expression with an aura of rage spanning a fifty-kilometre radius, courtesy of the man himself? Check.

The last item was due to Gilbert's text message at two in the morning (why must that man do _everything_ at that unholy hour?). It had stated:

_Meeting at Francis', 9 AM; bastards probably want to cancel the game_.

Like hell they were going to cancel.

He readjusted his watch to account for the one-hour time difference, then walked out of the Gare du Nord station and hailed for a taxi.

--x--

Gilbert was only _slightly _sulking. His brother must have read his blog before going to bed, since this morning Gilbert was practically dragged out of bed, forced to shower and dress himself and later literally kicked out of the house, on the excuse that his brother did not want him to be late for 'that important meeting you blogged about'.

Hah.

Ludwig more likely wanted to get Gilbert back for dragging him off to play football yesterday. Pounding on the door and swearing at his brother to let him back in brought no results, so Gilbert stomped off to Francis', vowing revenge when he returned home.

Francis nearly had a heart attack when he had arrived a good ten minutes before the meeting. The idiot even had the nerve to check Gilbert's forehead to see if he had a fever, since showing up early – or even on time – was just _not_ Gilbert. A quick smack to the head assured Francis that yes, he was fine.

"So where's your teammate?" Francis asked mischievously, leading Gilbert into the kitchen.

"He'll be here," Gilbert grumbled as he sat down on a chair and helped himself to a slice of the orange and chocolate cake on the table. "Hey, someone's at the door."

Francis went to get it; he soon returned with Antonio and a scowling Lovino in tow.

"Gilbert!" Antonio greeted warmly, pulling his friend up from the chair and into a hug. Lovino merely mumbled something inaudible before he sat down, glaring at pretty much everything in the room.

"Hey," Gilbert replied. "What's the kid doing here?" he asked, pointing at the Italian.

"Lovi? Oh, he's part of the reason why we want to have this meeting," Antonio explained, releasing Gilbert from his embrace. "But let's wait until everyone gets here," he added, absently seating himself right between Lovino and Francis and effectively shielded the former from the latter, who was trying to sneak in a quick grope or two.

Since Lovino was now out of his reach, Francis sighed and settled for groping Antonio instead, who was so used to this by now that he barely blinked. This did not sit well with Lovino either, who glared at the Frenchman.

The doorbell rang again.

"Now _that_ must be my teammate," Gilbert said as he went to get the door.

--x--

Arthur rang the doorbell and prepared himself for Francis' usual groping-as-a-greeting routine, clenching one fist as he prepared to deliver an uppercut to the man's jaw, which was _his_ usual form of the return greeting. He was more than just a bit surprised when it was Gilbert who opened the door.

"Oh my god, you're actually on time for the meeting," Arthur blurted.

Gilbert snorted. "Not you too. Now get your ass in the kitchen and let's see what those idiots want."

When both of them entered the kitchen, they were surprised at the reaction from the other three men. Antonio was pointing at Arthur, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly; Lovino looked as if he could not decide if he should be confused or annoyed, while Francis was just plain horrified.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Francis asked.

"Why shouldn't I be? We're meeting about the footy match this Saturday, aren't we?" Arthur replied, equally confused.

"Well, yes, but what are _you_ doing here?"

"I'm playing in the match, so of course I ought to be here! And I'm not going to let you call it off!"

"Wait, you're playing?" Francis gasped. He looked at Gilbert, who nodded in confirmation. "With Gilbert?"

"No, with Saint George – of course I'm playing footy with Gilbert you ponce!"

"I thought you were going to play with your brother!" Antonio said to Gilbert, surprised.

"Huh? West? Who said I was playing with West?" Even Gilbert was confused.

"What, you mean that potato bastard isn't playing after all?" Lovino shrieked. "Antonio you idiot, you said he was going to play!"

"But Lovi–"

"Hey, don't call West a potato bastard!"

"Antonio! When I get back I swear I'm going to torch your house down!"

Arthur sighed. It was times like these, when everything around him was just falling apart and none of it was his fault, that he wished he brought his embroidery. Even if he could not get a few decent stitches done, he could at least jab these idiots with a sharp needle.

--x--

It took them all ten minutes to calm down before they could actually sit down and discuss the match on Saturday in a less noisy, and not to mention less violent manner.

"So," Arthur repeated, "basically either Lovino there gets to play in the game, or else the whole thing gets called off?"

Both Francis and Antonio nodded.

"And you want West on our team?" Gilbert added.

Both Francis and Antonio looked at each other before they nodded again.

"Could you hold on for a bit? We need to discuss this," Arthur said before dragging Gilbert off to a far corner.

"Well? Are we gonna accept their proposal?" Gilbert asked.

"Of course we are! I'm not letting this game get called off! Not when I'm _this_ close to kicking Francis' teeth in!" Arthur hissed. He took a deep breath before he continued in a much calmer voice, "Besides, theoretically, it's a sound suggestion. With three people, we'd have forward, midfield and defence – or maybe a goalkeeper."

"So what's the problem?"

"The problem is convincing your brother, you daft bastard!"

Gilbert ignored the insult. At least those two idiots had insisted that his brother had to play on Saturday; that had spared him from hours of indecision and going through that map of Europe again. Also, he still needed to get revenge on Ludwig for throwing him out of the house this morning.

He could (figuratively, of course) kill two birds with one stone. Perfect.

"West is a decent enough 'keeper. It'll be good to have him on the team."

His little brother played goalie for a while at yesterday's practice and had managed to save quite a number of Gilbert's penalty kicks. Of course, Gilbert had gone a little easy on him. There was no way he would have saved those shots otherwise, since after all, Gilbert was awesome at football. Why, if it had been anyone else but Ludwig, the poor bastard would not have had a chance at saving any of those scoring attempts even if Gilbert decided to take it easy–

Arthur's voice interrupted his little mental monologue. "Well, getting Ludwig would make Lovino happy and Antonio would probably get to keep his house intact. And more importantly, I _still_ get to kick Francis' ass. But what makes you so sure he'll agree to play for us?"

"You just leave West to me," Gilbert assured him. "I'll get my little brother to play this Saturday."

"How?"

"I have my methods," Gilbert said, smirking. Maybe he should threaten Ludwig with his photos of the stash of BDSM porn hidden under his little brother's bed? No, that one was pure awesome and he should save _that _blackmail material for another time when he _really_ wanted something. He mentally went through his (shockingly long) list of Things I Can Use To Blackmail My Kid Brother, evaluated a few possibilities and picked the most suitable option.

Arthur eyed Gilbert's evilly contemplating expression with a fair bit of apprehension. "This is probably one of those things where I am better off not knowing, isn't it."

"You're so boring. Oh, try and cackle a bit."

"What on earth _for?"_

"Psychological warfare, of course. We've got those three idiots worried enough already, so we should press on our advantage and terrify them into wetting themselves."

"I do _not_ cackle."

"Fine, don't cackle then. Smirk. Laugh. Snigger. Just make it really awesome and evil!"

Arthur huffed. "I'm going through this ridiculousness _purely_ to demoralise them, mind you."

"Of course you are."

--x--

_"Mon dieu, _they are cackling! _Both_ of them!"

"I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."

"That's what you said right _before_ Arthur sank your armada."

"Ssh! They're heading over here."

"Will you two idiots just _shut up?" _Lovino hissed.

"Well?" Antonio asked once the other two men returned to the kitchen-cum-negotiation table.

Gilbert and Arthur looked at each other, grinned and then said in unison, "Yes."

Antonio breathed a huge sigh of relief. "See Lovi? I told you things would work out. Now you get to play on Saturday after all!"

"This whole mess wouldn't have happened if you actually bothered to read the whole blog first, you fuckin' moron!"

"Come on, Lovino–" Arthur said, taking pity on poor Antonio and tried to placate the Italian, but Lovino would have none of it.

"Shut up, you burnt scone bastard–"

_"What_ did you call me?" snapped Arthur, shooting a look of pure venom at Lovino.

Lovino cringed, instantly forgetting whatever he had wanted to say. Belatedly, he remembered that he was not the only one who was capable of a total mood change in seconds. Belatedly, he also remembered how touchy Arthur was about his cooking. Add the extra aggravating factor of having Francis around him and the man was just downright _vicious_. And the correct medical term for that, to quote Gilbert, is 'a total fuckin' psycho'.

Lovino looked at Antonio for some assistance, but the man was just blinking in confusion; obviously the direness of the situation had not quite made it into his thought processes just yet. Francis was of no help either, while Gilbert was merely grinning in amusement, obviously enjoying the show. So it was all up to him then. He tried to make a snappy comeback to save his dignity, which had not only reached rock bottom, but was also currently attempting to dig a very deep hole. Alas, the only thing that came out of his mouth was a pathetic-sounding, "Eep."

"What's your problem anyhow, you surly tosser? _Piles?_ Want me to kick them back up the jacksie for you?" Arthur snarled.

Lovino let out a terrified squeak and immediately hid behind Antonio, who finally registered what was going on. "Now, Arthur," Antonio said soothingly, but there was steel in that calm voice. "You know how Lovi is. Just let it go."

Strangely enough, it was Francis who actually defused the potentially explosive situation, simply by opening his mouth and being his usual self. "Come now Lovi, let big brother Francis protect you from that mean English football hooligan–"

There were several loud thuds as Arthur punched Francis in the gut, and then kicked him in the head a few times for good measure. "Sorry, Lovino," Arthur said in an almost sweet tone, as if he had utterly forgotten what Lovino had said to him, "what were you saying?"

"I want to wear my kit," Lovino mumbled from behind Antonio.

Arthur blinked. Of course they were all going to wear football kits; it was a football match after all, not the opera. "Oh, you mean you want to wear your national squad kit?"

"Yeah, and I want to wear my home kit, not my away kit," Lovino clarified, poking his head slightly into view.

"But you won't be playing in Italy, Lovi," Antonio pointed out.

"I don't care! I'm representing the _Azzurri_, so I want to wear my blue home kit!" Lovino insisted rather indignantly, a fair achievement for someone hiding behind someone else's back.

"What the hell? I'm gonna be wearing my home kit too then!" Gilbert protested rather needlessly, and was only doing so because he was starting to feel left out. Awesome people like him were _not_ supposed to be left out.

Arthur groaned. "Gilbert, we'll be playing in Germany, so of course you'd be wearing your home kit!"

"Well, Lovi does have a point. I'm supposed to be _La Furia Roja_. I wouldn't be much of a Red Fury if I had to wear my yellow away kit...."

"In that case, I want to wear my superior and not to mention much more stylish home kit as well," Francis demanded.

"Fine! We'll _all_ wear our home kits! That way the six of us won't have problems telling who is on which team, because all three of us on _this_ side will be wearing _white_ and all three of us over here are _blond!"_ Arthur said in exasperation, throwing his hands up in the air.

"I'm blond," Francis said from the floor, but everyone ignored him.

--x--

The issue of attire settled, the next items on the agenda was to pick an actual time and venue for the football match, as well as to lay out some additional regulations (Gilbert had insisted on calling them rules of engagement because 'it sounds more awesome' and everyone had agreed just to shut him up) since their match this Saturday was no ordinary match.

First they agreed that since there would only be six of them, playing on a regular-sized pitch was a bit pushing it, so they settled for a smaller pitch to play on. Gilbert insisted on taking care of it and the rest only agreed to that after Arthur promised that he would personally check up on things, because the last thing they needed on the pitch were things that clearly did not belong there such as land mines. (Gilbert sulked a bit, but only because he had not considered land mines and had merely thought of glue traps.) Then the meeting discussed other more interesting and creative rules.

No groping, touching, leering or anything that could be remotely considered as sexual harassment. (Lovino had insisted on this one, eyeing Francis all the while. Arthur seconded the Italian.)

No streaking. No, it _still _counts as streaking even with that bloody rose _there._

No touching of a certain hair curl. (Lovino threw a spectacular fit when it was _Antonio_ who objected.)

No use of black magic or hexes or cursed chairs or anything supernatural to curse the other side. (Everyone was looking at Arthur when this came up.)

No angel transformations or related magic. (Arthur almost sulked at this one.)

No tomatoes, scones or any food will be allowed during play. ("So beer is okay?" _"NO!"_)

No unicorns, fairies and other similar creatures on the pitch. Oh, same goes for other non-magical animals, including that bird. ("What bird?" "The one on your head, pillock.")

No invading vital regions. (Gilbert complained loudly about this until Arthur shoved a huge piece of cake in his mouth.)

"By the way, just who is going to enforce all these regulations – oh, _sorry_ Gilbert – these rules of engagement? I don't trust you lot enough to actually follow them," Arthur grumbled.

"Like _we_ should trust the English football hooligan there!"

Again, there was another scuffle between Arthur and Francis, with Arthur reintroducing the other man to his own kitchen floor. It took them all another ten minutes to calm down before Antonio suggested, "Why don't we just get a referee?"

Everyone stared at him until Arthur broke the silence. "Bloody hell, did you just make a sensible suggestion?"

Antonio would have frowned, but Lovino's look of reluctant approval made him smile instead. "So are we getting a referee or not?"

"We need someone neutral," Lovino pointed out. "And someone who isn't afraid to actually enforce all these additional regula– fine, other stupid potato bastard, _rules of engagement."_

There was a long moment of silence, but everyone knew that they were thinking of the very same thing. Or rather, person.

Arthur coughed. "So who wants to explain this to Vash?"

--x--

Surprisingly enough, Vash agreed to be referee for the game. He had objected very loudly at first, calling Gilbert a bunch of very impolite names on the phone until Gilbert muttered the magic words:

"All expenses paid."

There had been a short pause before Vash asked, "Can I bring my sister?"

"Sure. Both of you can even grab first-class seats. Actually, go ahead and grab first-class _everything."_

That had practically sealed the deal.

"So who's going to actually pay for all that?" Antonio asked after Gilbert ended the call.

Gilbert struck a pose as he showed them a platinum credit card. "All taken care of."

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Wait, let me see that – this is your brother's credit card!"

"And your point is?"

Arthur twitched. He should put a stop to this; it was just plain thievery and Ludwig would undoubtedly be very angry when he finds out....

On the other hand, said a little voice in Arthur's head that sounded just like the one that had told him ages ago that it would be nice to get away from all the rain, so let's go and colonise other places for some decent sunshine, it was not _his_ money. He shrugged. "Why the hell not?"

Gilbert grinned. "There's hope for you yet."

--x--

Done with the meeting, the new Anglo-Prussian alliance left to discuss battle plans over a few drinks, while a furious Lovino headed for home a few minutes later after a hysterical-sounding phone call from his brother, who had accidentally locked himself out of the house. Again.

That left only Antonio and Francis.

"Whatever happened to that cute little green-eyed boy who sniffled and would only let me leave if I promised to come back and play with him?" Francis half-groaned, half-whimpered dramatically as his friend helped him up into a chair.

"He grew up and kicked the Béarnaise sauce out of you?"

"Shut up Antonio, and get me some ice."

"Hey, you asked."

--x--

The main reason he had humoured Gilbert's football-related antics so far was because he was secretly pleased that his brother had something to focus on; something that did _not_ have too much potential in starting an international crisis. If anything, Gilbert's little match on Saturday would at least keep him from causing too much trouble for a week.

But this?

"Come on, West! I need a goalie!"

"No! And that's final!"

Ludwig may be stubborn, but Gilbert had sheer bloody-mindedness in _spades_.

"West! You are going to play in this Saturday's football game or _I swear I'll make you sorry you were born!" _

The look on his brother's face was so savage that he inadvertently took a step back, surprised.

Ludwig possessed impressive height and bulk, but he knew that Gilbert's deceptively lithe frame hid the fact that his brother was just about as strong as he was. No one would expect less from someone who practically spent centuries growing up in chainmail and was waving a heavy steel blade around for most of his life. A serious brawl between them would be an extremely painful experience for both men, even though Ludwig was certain he would not be the loser.

Still, he doubted that his brother would resort to physical violence. The last thing Gilbert would do is injure his future goalkeeper; his brother may be crazy, but not _that_ crazy. He relaxed a little.

No, the more likely outcome was that Gilbert would start sulking. Now, most people would dismiss sulking as a relatively harmless activity. However, most people did not know Gilbert as well as _he_ did.

See, only Ludwig knew that Gilbert had not one, but _two_ modes of sulking.

The first typical form of a sulking Gilbert, the one that most people knew about, involved him moping for hours in a corner of the house, or down at the local pub, muttering how nice it was to be alone with his awesome self and how he needed no company, albeit with a pouty lower lip.

The second was rare and occurred only in Ludwig's presence, and involved Gilbert ruthlessly embarking on a quest to be at _least_ four times as annoying and destructive than usual for _weeks_, making life extremely miserable and migraine-inducing for Ludwig, and all of it done with – surprise, surprise – a pouty lower lip.

Judging from the determined look on Gilbert's face and his quivering lower lip, his brother's imminent period of sulking was of the second, and not to mention, extremely devastating kind. An hour and a half of football, or three weeks' worth of head-splitting migraines? It was not much of a decision, really. And both of them knew it.

Gilbert was good at fighting dirty, whether on a physical or a psychological level.

Damn him.

"Just the goalkeeper?"

"Yes West, just the goalkeeper."

Ludwig closed his eyes, sighed and relented. "Fine."

"Hell yes!" Gilbert cackled and threw his hands up in the air in triumph.

--x--

Visitors to Gilbert's blog later that night were somewhat puzzled at his latest entry:

_Monday:_

_AHAHAHAHAHAHA_

_GOT HIM TO AGREE TO IT_

_AHAHAHAHAHAHA  
_

_I am so awesome._

Ludwig however, merely groaned and started to regret his decision.

* * *

**Additional notes:**

i. _Les Blues_ - nickname of the French national football squad; literally 'The Blues', due to the colour of the home kit.

ii. Gieves & Hawkes, Turnbull & Asser and John Lobb, Bootmaker are firms in London specialising in traditional bespoke (custom-tailored) menswear.

iii._ Azzurri_ - nickname of the Italian national football squad; literally 'Sky Blues'. The team's home kit is sky blue, hence the nickname.


	5. Part 5: Weltmeister

**Author's Note: **Someone asked me if this was written for the kink meme. After being enlightened on what exactly is the kink meme (thanks, **bitter green tea**), the answer to that is 'no'. And how did this thing end up being such a huge monster of a fic anyway?

* * *

**Of Family, Friends and Football**

**Part Five: Weltmeister in Freundschaftsspielen**

"Grrghhhhhmmmm," grunted the bleary-eyed mess of unruly platinum blond hair, pale limbs and colossal ego currently sitting at the kitchen table, his chin cradled in his palms as he stared imploringly at his younger brother, who was busy cooking.

"No, I've barely enough time to make this one batch of pancakes as it is. I need to go to work."

"Mmpphhm?" Gilbert pouted just a little bit.

"You can always make them yourself, you know." Ludwig placed the stack of pancakes on a plate and set it down on the table. Gilbert immediately helped himself to some.

"Hrgghhmmm. Pgghhhmff?"

Gilbert had pretty much behaved himself for the past few days, meaning no one had called Ludwig to lodge a complaint about some outrageous stunt or prank, thus leaving the younger of the two brothers in a fairly pleasant mood and not to mention migraine-free throughout the week so far. Ludwig even found Gilbert's morning antics somewhat amusing today, when usually it would have just annoyed him.

"Trying to flatter me by telling me that I make the most awesome pancakes is not going to get you a second helping," Ludwig chided. His brother was such a _brat_ sometimes.

"Prgghhhmm mmrrgghh?"

Ludwig blinked as he went through his Gilbert-gruntspeak mental phrasebook. "I don't know what that meant," he admitted when he failed to locate a relevant entry.

Gilbert took a large gulp of coffee, swallowed and then shook his head violently a few times. "I said," he tried again with slightly more coherent speech, apparently successful at shaking his vocal chords back to normal, "don't forget about practice. Arthur's coming today."

"I'll be there right after work," Ludwig promised.

"You'd better. Remember West, football–"

"–is war, I know. Why were you up so late anyway? You look terrible."

"Was doing some research for Saturday's game."

"Playing FIFA on your PS3 all night counts as research?"

Gilbert yawned. "God, West. Do you want me to play video games all night, or do you want me raiding random TV stations and football clubs for football match videos?" He smirked. _"Please_ say it's the latter, because I really want to see what's going on in–"

"Forget it! Stick to the video games. I'm going to work now, see you later."

"See ya, West. And yes, I'll do the stupid dishes. Just show up for practice!"

Ludwig untied his apron, hung it up on one of the hooks on the wall and grabbed his suit jacket and briefcase on the chair. Less than five minutes later he was in his car, driving to work.

Why was Arthur coming over today anyway? Oh yes, he was going to help Gilbert with getting the pitch for their football game ready. Gilbert had mentioned something about playing on a smaller pitch, so the local council had to repaint the lines and reposition the goalposts; Arthur was going to be there to help supervise the work. Arthur was generally sensible – except when either Alfred or Francis were around, but that was another story – so Ludwig trusted Arthur to keep an eye on things and had given the man permission to smack his brother around a bit just in case Gilbert decided to get a little _creative._

Ludwig checked the digital clock on the dashboard. By now Gilbert would probably be out walking the dogs, or out for a run in the city as he listened to the music on his iPod and his run would end with him dashing up the stairs of the Konzerthaus Berlin à la Rocky Balboa (Ludwig rued the day he bought that DVD box set for his brother's birthday). If Gilbert stuck to the routine he had established and had dutifully blogged about for the past few days, after that he would grab some lunch before going off to the nearby football field to train, as well as to see about the work on the pitch.

Ludwig could not help but wish that his brother would take some of his other official duties as seriously as he did with the football match on Saturday. Gilbert did not have to go to work five days a week as Ludwig did; his brother was usually assigned specific domestic duties from time to time, rather than regular international and domestic tasks due to his unusual status. The top brass had decided that rather than letting him run off loose on his own, it was better to give him a few things to do once in a while, just to keep an eye on him.

Ludwig admitted that generally Gilbert was good at his job, which usually involved attending certain defence-related meetings, as well as threatening and terrifying various recalcitrant officials and MPs into doing whatever Ludwig's boss wanted. However, Ludwig had to admit that whenever Gilbert was on an assignment, retrieval of his brother at crucial moments was necessary in order to prevent Gilbert from getting carried away and end up starting potential armed conflicts with their neighbours for the heck of it, particularly with Roderich.

Still, having a migraine-free week so far due to Gilbert's sound behaviour was a nice feeling, although Ludwig was almost positive that it would end after Saturday's game.

--x--

Gilbert smirked, pleased with his own awesomeness.

While Ludwig had specifically mentioned that he should not bother any of the German football teams or ruling bodies, his brother never said anything about _other_ German government agencies, oh, such as the _Bundesnachrichtendienst. _A phone call to the intelligence agency and a snarled threat or two had got him what he wanted, namely information on his enemies. Specifically, his enemies' preparations for the game on Saturday.

After all, football _is _war. And in war, you needed all the information you could get in order to formulate the perfect battle strategy over a bottle of cold beer and a thermos of hot tea during a fifteen-minute break from football practice.

"You actually got some poor souls in the BND to find out what Antonio and Lovino are doing for the game? You sneaky bastard."

"Says the guy who bullied _his_ intelligence agencies into producing satellite images of the football field near Francis' place and intercepting that pansy's phone calls!"

Arthur's cheeks turned slightly red. "I meant that as a compliment."

"Really? Oh. Anyway, the BND says that Antonio isn't doing anything much. He played with the local kids only twice. Other than that, he just spends his time tending to his tomatoes." Gilbert snorted in derision. Typical of the Spaniard to take things so lightly. "That brat Lovino on the other hand, either forces his brother – poor little Feli – into training with him every morning until lunch, or he goes out for a run. I don't know why he needs to do all that extra running, Italians are fuckin' geniuses at running away in the first place. Then he goes off to train with either _Napoli_ or _Palermo_. The kid's taking this really seriously. He's got the two clubs completely petrified whenever he shows up." Gilbert could not help but nod in approval, since traumatising random people was always awesome in his book.

"He just wants to bash your brother's head in with a football."

"He can try. West's a great goalkeeper," Gilbert said proudly.

"He'd better be. Then again, maybe whatever Lovino kicks at your brother won't even hurt him a bit, since he's built like a brick shithouse."

Gilbert frowned at that last bit. "Did you just insult my brother? Or was that one of those funny English compliments of yours again?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "It wasn't an insult. Anyway, here's what I have on Francis. Judging from the satellite imagery, that bastard's going to be the goalie. He's doing nothing but basic drills and working on his goalkeeping."

_"Francis? Goalkeeper?"_

"That was my reaction too." Arthur took a sip from his thermos. "Antonio's midfield, and Lovino's the forward. I suppose Lovino wanted to make sure Francis doesn't get anywhere near him, so Antonio stuck him as the goalie. How did he manage that, I wonder."

"Antonio can be fuckin' persuasive if he wants to be, especially where his little Lovi's welfare is concerned," Gilbert explained. "It just doesn't happen often, since he keeps forgetting where he puts that double-headed war ax of his. But once he finds it and points it at your face, it's hard to say no even if he has that clueless smile on his mug." He finished his beer. "As for Francis, well yeah, I can sort of see him as a goalkeeper. That pansy was always quick with his hands."

Especially when it came to touching other people in inappropriate areas.

Although that line was not actually uttered, both of them knew they were thinking it.

Ludwig joined them some time later; as the youngest of the trio went through his warm-up routine, he engaged Arthur in conversation while Gilbert busied himself with taking pictures of the finished pitch to post to his blog.

"Did my brother cause any trouble?" Ludwig asked, bracing himself.

"Although I must admit there was a relatively small amount of psychological and mental trauma inflicted upon the local council workers, no one died or required medical attention. No explosives, incendiaries, biological contaminants or other harmful objects were used. No physical harm was caused to the surrounding premises, people or animals. No vital regions were invaded. No lawsuits foreseen in the immediate future," Arthur said, counting off his fingers. He shrugged. "I think that about covers it, really."

Ludwig looked impressed. "He was that cooperative?"

"Well... it was rather difficult to get him to stop trying to exercise his destructive creativity."

Ludwig gave Arthur a wry look. "You punched him, didn't you."

"Just once," Arthur said defensively, "and it wasn't really hard. And you _did_ say it was all right. He was a bit angry at first." He frowned and then corrected, "Actually, I think he was more surprised than angry, but he cheered up after I said I'd buy him a beer."

"What are you two still standing there for?" Gilbert yelled from the other end of the pitch. "Get off your lazy asses and get over here for some training!"

Both Arthur and Ludwig exchanged long-suffering looks, sighed and ran to where their smirking teammate waited.

--x--

Ludwig could no longer ignore the unholy racket from downstairs. And just earlier in the day he was thinking on how nice it was that Gilbert was on relatively pleasant behaviour so far. He sighed, pushed his paperwork aside and made his way to the source of the noise; the storeroom in the back.

"What are you doing?" he asked when he opened the door to the storeroom to find his brother sitting cross-legged on the floor, noisily rummaging through the contents of a large box. Several other boxes and storage crates lay opened next to him, their contents scattered on the floor. Ludwig twitched at the amount of cleaning up he would have to do later; like always, Gilbert would refuse to tidy up afterward.

"Hey, West. Have you seen my old football kit? You know, the white and blue one? I can't find it in my room anywhere, so I thought it must be down here."

"Your old kit? No, I don't think I've seen it for a while now."

Gilbert put the box away and scratched his head. "Where the fuck did I put that thing? I could have sworn I packed it in one of my boxes when I moved back in here. And the game's only in a few days...." He stood up and made an exasperated noise. "What the hell am I going to wear then? We're supposed to wear our home kits!"

"Well, you can always wear mine," Ludwig offered. "I've got a spare kit–"

"No, West! I need to wear my kit! _My kit!_ Don't you get it?" Gilbert snapped, glaring at him. He must have looked surprised at the outburst, since Gilbert's harsh expression softened slightly before the man looked away. "It's okay, West. I can't wear your kit anyway. You're about two sizes bigger than me," Gilbert muttered.

A feeble attempt at an apology, but Ludwig accepted it anyway. "I'll look for it after I'm done cleaning up here. Maybe you've just misplaced it somewhere else, that's all."

"Maybe it's in your room?" Gilbert wondered aloud. When Ludwig glared at him, he said, "Okay, I know. Your room is off-limits after that last time. Honestly West, I don't know why you're so sensitive about that boring old room of yours."

"Anyone would be 'sensitive' if they came home to find their room and everything in it covered in fluorescent blue paint! What _were_ you thinking back then?"

Gilbert shrugged. "I can't remember. But it must have been something _really_ awesome."

Ludwig massaged his right temple with one hand and pointed to the door with the other. "Out."

"Fine, fine."

With Gilbert safely out of the way, Ludwig rolled up his sleeves and set to work tidying up the mess his brother had made. He carefully repacked some of the boxes and neatly stacked them back up on the shelves, thinking as he worked. Despite Gilbert's self-proclaimed awesomeness, his brother was very sensitive about a few things.

The first was Gilbert's adamant refusal to be named anything other than Prussia. When he had moved back in with Ludwig, some of the top brass suggested that he change his official name to reflect his new status; Gilbert's response to that was to ignore them all and sang _Preußenlied_ loudly at the meeting, drowning out all the objections and startled exclamations at his rudeness. When Ludwig had tried to make him to at least rethink the whole situation, Gilbert had simply glared at his younger brother and stated that he had pulled the same stunt with Ivan – who then had proceeded to give him a sound beating with that damned water pipe – and still he had only answered to Prussia then, so he would be damned if he would answer to any other name now, just because some stupid paper-pushers thought it was a good idea.

Ludwig never brought up the subject again.

The second was Gilbert's attachment to some of his personal possessions. His brother had quite a number of them, as evidenced by the boxes and crates in the storeroom. There were keepsakes like his old Teutonic Order surcoat (Ludwig was amazed that the garment had somehow survived, even though it was more than a bit tattered) and chainmail; oil portraits of his dear Old Fritz; his battle standard, that blood-stained Prussian flag Ludwig remembered so well from his childhood; and of course, his old Prussian blue uniform.

When Ludwig had suggested that some of the items should be donated to a museum, Gilbert's response was a vicious glare, followed by a hard smack to the head. Ludwig got the message and respected his brother's wishes, keeping all of the items in storage. They were meant to be kept and not to be given away or thrown out, not ever.

As for Gilbert's old football kit, Ludwig knew why his brother could not find it. That kit was the one thing Gilbert brought back from his years behind that damned wall, and it was also the one thing that Ludwig had secretly got rid of.

Ludwig _hated_ that white and blue kit; he hated looking at it and recalling all those years of forced separation from his brother. He knew that Gilbert was not well-treated during that period; his brother was very thin and deathly pale when he had moved back in. Ludwig knew that during that period of separation, Gilbert had made sure that most of his own meagre earnings, his personal rations – what little that may be – went to his people, even if it meant another painful confrontation with Ivan. It was just like when Ludwig was growing up; Gilbert had made sure that Ludwig got the best food, even at his own expense if need be, since he did not want his little brother to have poor nutrition like he did when he was a boy. Despite that devil-may-care appearance, that unbearable attitude and not to mention that gargantuan ego, deep down, Gilbert cared for his people, cared for _him._ Ludwig would personally vouch for that and would cheerfully beat up, or even start another war with anyone who dared to suggest otherwise.

So if Gilbert wanted his own kit, then he would get his own kit. Ludwig would see to it.

--x--

Gilbert was still worried about his kit the following day, and the day after.

When he had asked his brother about his kit in the morning, the younger man had simply shrugged and said that the kit could not be found anywhere in the house, so he must have simply forgotten to pack it with the rest of his things after all. Disappointing, but there was nothing else he could do about it. He would just have to borrow his brother's kit, or better still, he could just buy a new one tomorrow.

"Tomorrow's already Friday too," he muttered to himself as he turned off the shower and stepped out of the stall. Just one more day to the match. Just one more day and he would get to kick the living daylights out of Antonio and Francis. Well, maybe he would bully little Lovino around a bit too, just to make it look good. He was confident that he would have no problems dodging a rapid-fire barrage of tomatoes; unlike Antonio, _he_ was awesome.

Finished showering, he returned to his room to get ready for bed. He made it a point not to stay up too late for the last few days before the match; the last thing he needed was to be in less awesome conditions for the big day. It was only when he wanted to update his blog that he noticed the box on his desk.

Judging from the general appearance of the box, Gilbert guessed that it contained some clothes. Ludwig bought him some things once in a while; he could not help but wonder if it were because his brother secretly enjoyed dressing him up or anything of the sort. He shoved that somewhat disturbing thought away and opened the box, expecting some new fancy button-up shirt, then blinked when its contents were nothing of the like.

Instead of the usual shirt or trousers, the box held a white football jersey with black trim, black shorts and white football socks – all of it in his size. Ludwig must have bought it especially for him to wear to the match. Well, at least he did not have to pay to wear his brother's kit–

He froze when he finally noticed something different on the white jersey. Instead of the usual DFB logo on the jersey's left side, like on his brother's kit, this jersey had the Prussian coat of arms – the crowned black eagle carrying a sceptre and an orb in each of its talons, with the intertwined 'FR' for _Fridericus Rex_ emblazoned on its breast – _his_ coat of arms.

"West...."

Gilbert immediately ran to Ludwig's room, the jersey grasped firmly in his hands. Not bothering to knock, he flung the door wide open, startling the hell out of his younger brother. "West?" he practically yelled.

"Gaah! How many times have I _told _you to knock – oh." Ludwig made an embarrassed cough when he spotted the jersey Gilbert was holding. "I see you found it."

"It was kinda hard to miss, since it was sitting on my desk."

Ludwig's cheeks turned pink. "Is it all right? I couldn't find that old white and blue kit of yours, so I thought I'd get this one made for you." He coughed again. "I think this one looks much better," he added. He looked like a little boy caught in the middle of a prank and was trying to explain himself, tugging at his collar as he looked at Gilbert with a somewhat hopeful expression.

"All right? West, this is _more_ than all right – this is just...." Adjectives failed him; he did not know just how to describe what he was currently feeling at the moment. "This is just _awesome."_

There, that was the best thing he could think of and it still paled in comparison to what he felt. Still, it was good enough for Ludwig; his brother looked relieved, then pleased with himself.

"It's in your colours," Ludwig said, his usual calm demeanour returning. "I'm glad you liked it."

"West?"

"Yes?"

Gilbert smiled. "Thanks."

His brother returned the smile. "No problem."

--x--

Ludwig breathed out a huge sigh of relief when Gilbert left and closed the door. He had been afraid that Gilbert would not like the new football kit; fortunately that was not the case. When his brother said that it was awesome and then smiled – not smirked or grinned, but actually _smiled_ – he could not help but smile back. His brother had never looked so happy, even though there had been no vital regions invaded, the usual requirement of getting Gilbert to smile_._

When Ludwig came of age, it was hard to find ways for him to show his thanks for all that Gilbert has done for him. His brother hated mushy gestures, so hugging and heart-felt statements and the like were out of the question, and he was not going to give in to Gilbert's own ridiculous suggestions on ways of properly thanking him. Therefore he had arranged to have the German football squad's home colours as white and black after his brother's flag, and made sure that they stayed that way even during their forced separation, and later their reunification. He liked to think of it as his own personal means of permanently displaying his appreciation and affection for Gilbert in a way that would not make his brother laugh at him, or even punch him for being a sappy idiot.

So when Gilbert had wanted to wear his own kit, Ludwig thought that perhaps his brother would like to wear something in his own colours, just like how Ludwig's football team has always worn them, albeit with a small but highly significant alteration.

Ludwig also loved to think of the national kit's colours as a way to make sure everyone remembered Gilbert, although he was pretty sure that not many people in the country needed reminding. There were plenty of things that were – and still are – part of Gilbert, part of Prussia around. For example, the Teutonic Order still existed, although no longer as a military order but as a charitable and ceremonial body (Gilbert had been annoyed at the current location of its headquarters; "What the hell are they doing in _Vienna?_ That Roderich's turned them into a bunch of pansies!"); the Prussian virtues are featured regularly in political and academic debates. Come to think of it, the beer industry believed in Gilbert's personal existence in an almost religious fervour, for if his brother were to disappear he suspected that half the breweries in the country would go out of business due to a sharp plunge in sales. No, Gilbert would be around for a long, long time. He would make sure of that.

Or maybe, his brother would be around just because he was indeed, that awesome.

Ludwig finished his last piece of paperwork and then went to his final item on his daily routine; checking up on Gilbert. He opened the door to find, as usual, the lights still turned on. Gilbert was already asleep, snoring softly with a pleased expression on his face, his new jersey still in his hands. His little yellow pet bird was also asleep on its perch on the headboard.

Shaking his head, Ludwig carefully removed the jersey from Gilbert's clutches and folded it up before setting it down on the desk. He noticed that Gilbert's laptop was still switched on and the browser was currently displaying his brother's latest blog entry. Curious, he looked at the entry to find that Gilbert had posted pictures of his new kit, but surprisingly, the pictures had nothing like 'my awesome new kit' or 'my kit is more awesome than yours, you losers' for a caption. Instead, there was only the one line:

_I have the most awesome little brother in the whole fucking universe._

Ludwig could not help but smile, since to be called awesome by Gilbert is very high praise indeed. He pressed the laptop's 'hibernate' key and then went to tuck Gilbert in, careful not to wake him. And then just because Ludwig felt like it, he bent down and kissed the sleeping man on the forehead.

"Good night, brother," he said softly, before he turned off the lights and closed the door.

* * *

**Additional notes:**

i. _Weltmeister in Freundschaftsspielen _(World Champion in friendly games); the nickname of the East German (GDR) football national squad.

ii. _Bundesnachrichtendienst _or BND for short; the German external intelligence agency.

iii. _Napoli_ or _Società Sportiva Calcio Napoli _in full_; _a Naples-based club currently in Italy's _Serie A_ football league.

iv._ Palermo _or_ Unione Sportiva Città di Palermo _in full; a football club based in Palermo, Sicily, also currently playing in the _Serie A. _I figured Lovi would probably want to train with the southern clubs.

v. The former GDR national football team home kit was white and blue.

vi. _Preußenlied_ – the national anthem for the Kingdom of Prussia.

vi. True fact: the German national football squad's home kit is traditionally white and black, after the colours of the Prussian flag.


	6. Part 6: Azzurri

**Author's Note: **One last bit before the actual football game. The next part might take a while though. In the meantime, there's a fanart of Gilbert, Ludwig and Arthur wearing their home kits posted at my profile page. Hope that would tide you over until I get the next part posted up on the site. Enjoy.

* * *

**Of Family, Friends and Football**

**Part Six: Azzurri**

It was a rather odd feeling, coming home early from work. Ludwig could not remember when was the last time he did that. But miraculously enough, he had managed to finish all of his paperwork for the day, plus his boss had waved him off with a smile and told him to 'go home and enjoy the weekend' when he asked if there was anything else that needed to be done.

So here he was at the dinner table with his teammates, after the final football practice for the big match the next day. Gilbert had been pleased that he was able to put an extra hour into practice, and so was Arthur. Arthur had even decided to check himself in a nearby hotel for the night instead of going home, since he did not want to risk being late for the game tomorrow. Ludwig had offered the man the guest bedroom, but Arthur had respectfully declined and said that he did not want to impose.

"Well then," Ludwig said calmly to the two men in his company, "do we have an actual strategy for the game tomorrow?"

"What, a battle plan? Of course we do, West," Gilbert answered with that infuriating oh-so-superior smirk, "but we're not telling you."

"What?"

"It's a secret!"

Ludwig stared at his brother in disbelief. "What do you mean, it's a secret? That's just ridiculous – how am I supposed to play tomorrow if I don't know what's the team strategy?"

"Look, West, just trust your awesome big brother to save the day – _argh!"_

Arthur must have given Gilbert a very sharp and painful jab or kick under the table, for his brother was glaring at the final member of the team. "What Gilbert means is," Arthur said calmly, ignoring the Prussian's muffled cursing, "we can't tell you about it right now due to – um, certain security issues. But we will later, once we've taken care of a few things."

_"Security issues?"_

"I have it on very good authority that there will be an attempt – or even several attempts – to solicit our team strategy tonight. Therefore, any disclosure is not possible at this moment."

"But you two _do _have something planned for tomorrow."

"Yes, Gilbert worked out some of the basics, and then I polished them up. Rest assured, we do have a stra– fine, _battle plan,_ now will you please _stop_ kicking my leg! – ready for tomorrow's match." Arthur then smiled and tapped his head with a finger. "All of it safely stored right here."

That was a relief. If it had only been Gilbert to formulate a plan, who knew what sort of nonsense his brother came up with. Knowing the Prussian, it probably involved lots of explosions or stuffed animals or even penguins, or worse still, a ghastly combination of all three. Arthur would see to it that at the very least, the plan would not get any of them arrested.

At least he hoped so. Arthur tended to do rather illogical things when it came to his almost-obsession with beating up Francis. Was this – this _paranoia_ about security simply one of those? He decided to ask. "So, about these security issues–" he began, but was promptly interrupted.

_"Why the hell are you still kicking my leg?"_

"Just felt like it."

Ludwig cleared his throat meaningfully. Arthur had grabbed Gilbert by the collar, but calmly paused in mid-punch to attend to his inquiry. "Oh, sorry. Anyway, do you think the Vargas boys are done with dinner?"

"I don't really see how that relates to my question," Ludwig replied, but at Arthur's look he reluctantly added, "but Feliciano usually gives me a call after he's done. Usually around this hour or so. Why?"

"You'll see," Arthur replied, before he continued his interrupted sock to the head. Gilbert dodged and grabbed a handful of Arthur's shirt.

And right on cue, Ludwig's cellular phone rang. A quick glance at the screen indicated that yes, it was indeed the younger of the two Italian brothers. "Hello, Feliciano," Ludwig greeted.

The other two men at the table promptly froze, taking an impromptu truce in their fisticuffs and hissed simultaneously, "Put him on speakerphone!" Startled, Ludwig did as he was told.

"Ve~! How are you?" Feliciano greeted cheerfully. "I just finished dinner and I thought I'd give you a call! We had some delicious pasta!"

"I'm just fine, Feliciano," Ludwig replied. "How're things?"

"Things are good, ve~ I'm looking forward to watching you play in the football match tomorrow – waaah!" A painful yelp from Feliciano, before some loud, rapid cussing in Italian was heard in the background. "I'm looking forward to see Lovi play too! And big brothers Francis and Antonio and Gilbert and Arthur!"

Ludwig sighed.

"Ve, Ludwig~" Feliciano continued, "can I ask you something? Actually, my brother told me to ask you – waaah! Lovi, stop that!"

"Only if you stop being such an idiot! I told you not to tell him that!" Lovino snapped not-too-sofly at the other end.

Ludwig glanced up to see Arthur had his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking in silent mirth. Gilbert was sniggering. What was so funny?

"I'm sorry! Anyway, I had something to ask you! And it's all for the sake of happiness and pasta!" Feliciano said brightly.

Happiness and pasta? Ludwig was puzzled. "Yes, you mentioned that. What is it?"

"Well, I – see, that's me, _not _my brother – am curious as to how're you going to play tomorrow! He – I mean, _I_ was wondering if you're going play a defensive game or something?"

Ludwig took his phone away from his ear and pointed at it, at the same time giving a meaningful look at his companions. Well, one of them anyway; Gilbert had disappeared under the table, probably pounding the carpet in hysterical laughter, judging from the noise. Arthur was covering his mouth to prevent himself from laughing out loud, but he nodded furiously to answer Ludwig's unspoken question. Yes, this was that security issue he talked about. Yes, this was one of the other side's attempts to solicit their team strategy.

Poor, poor little Feliciano, he thought. Lovino must have threatened him into doing this.

"Ve~ Ludwig? Are you still there?"

"Oh, sorry. Yes, I'm still here. I'm really sorry Feliciano, but I can't tell you that." He took a deep breath and braced himself for what usually followed when one of Feliciano's requests was denied. Here it comes... wait for it....

"But Ludwig~" Feliciano wailed in that predictable oh-so-pitiful tone, "why won't you tell me?"

Ludwig groaned. It was hard to say no when the Italian started wailing. It was just so _heartbreaking._ No wonder Arthur refused to tell him anything about tomorrow's plan; the man was understandably afraid that if Feliciano kept this up, he might let one or two things slip out by accident. If not, than out of sheer pity.

"I can't tell you anything because I really don't have a clue what we're going to do tomorrow," he answered truthfully. At least he did not have to lie. That made him feel somewhat better.

"You don't know what you're going to do tomorrow?" Feliciano repeated in confusion. Judging from the soft murmur of Italian in the background, his brother shared the same sentiment.

"Yes, I'm just the goalkeeper. I don't really have to do anything else but saving goals." He glanced at Arthur. Surely that little bit of information was all right? He had to give Feliciano _something_, at the very least to avoid the poor boy from being scolded by his brother again and he was almost certain that the other team already knew that fact anyway.

Again, Arthur nodded to his unspoken question.

There was another softly-spoken exchange of Italian in the background, before Feliciano asked in a miserable tone that made Ludwig feel as if he were a horribly, horribly evil person who had just thrown a litter of cute and fluffy kittens into a pot of boiling water, "Ve~ Are you sure?"

Ludwig summoned all of that German resolve and took a deep breath. "Yes, I'm sure," he replied.

"Okay. Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow! I'd wish you good luck but Lovi would be mad at me! Bye!" Feliciano ended his call, but not before everyone heard Lovino shriek in frustration.

Arthur had gone to a far corner of the room to laugh his head off, while Gilbert crawled out from under the table, wheezing and holding his sides. "God," he gasped, "I didn't think that little Lovino would actually do it."

"Do what?"

"Threaten to forbid Feliciano from cooking pasta for the rest of his life if he didn't call you and try to find out how're we playing tomorrow."

"Forbid him from making pasta – wait, how did you know?"

Arthur gave one final gasp of laughter and raised his hand in admission. "My doing. I had the SIS set up a listening point outside the Vargas home yesterday." He smiled. "Amazing, the technology today. You don't even have to bug rooms like the old days."

Ludwig could only stare at the man in disbelief. "You had SIS stalking the place," he managed to repeat some moments later. "Did you even consider the diplomatic repercussions if your people got caught?" So much for Arthur being sensible.

"Bah, they know how to take care of themselves. They've already left anyway, I couldn't risk having them hanging around there for too long. Besides, that frog tried to get his DGSE to hack into my computer first. Those idiots started it!"

Ludwig sighed and covered his face with his hands. If only his fellow nations would devote such similar passion to solving more important issues, such as global warming or the current worldwide economic recession. But _no._ They had to zealously devote their efforts to, of all things, a ridiculous Saturday _football game_ – and a game not even recognised by FIFA, nonetheless.

"Stop that," Gilbert chided, pulling his hands down. "And turn your phone off. I'm sure he'll call you again."

"Unacceptable. I can't turn it off, what if the boss needs to reach me?"

"Then your boss will send someone here to get you if it's really important! God West, just turn that phone _off_. At least if Feliciano can't reach you, Lovino won't be mad at him for failing to get something out of you. The kid'll just be mad at _you. _Nothing new there."

Ludwig reluctantly admitted that his brother had a point. "All right," he grumbled, and did as he was told.

Apparently Gilbert was the next target on the list, since his cellular phone rang. "Oh shit," Gilbert said, staring at the display. "Now he's calling _me._ On video, too."

"Don't answer that!" Arthur ordered.

Unfortunately, Gilbert hardly took orders from anyone; he habitually liked to do the opposite, thus leading him to commit the act of flipping his phone open to answer the video call. "Hi there!" he greeted cheerfully, grinning at the screen.

Arthur on the other hand, was making wringing gestures with his hands. Ludwig knew exactly how the man felt; he wanted to strangle his brother a few times himself.

"Ve~ big brother Gilbert! Hi!" Feliciano greeted with that bright smile, waving one hand.

Oh no. His brother had a soft spot for little Feliciano. Now that the Italian was able to use that pleading voice and all those facial expressions to their full devastating, heartwrenching effects, was Gilbert going to give in and let slip their battle plans – err, their team strategy for tomorrow?

"What's up?"

Feliciano seemed to be squinting at something off-screen. "Ve~ Lovi, your handwriting is so tiny... aha!" The Italian faithfully recited whatever his brother had written on – a cue card, maybe? - as he beamed happily, "'Ask the potato bastard's brother what is their offensive strategy.' Oh, okay. Ve~ Gilbert, what is your offensive strategy for tomorrow?"

Either ignoring or totally oblivous to Lovino's frustrated howl of _"Chigi~!"_ in the background, Gilbert replied, "Plans for tomorrow? Nothing special, little Feli. I'm just going to get the _Luftwaffe_ to send a few of those Eurofighter Typhoons to shoot Francis down so it's easier for us to score goals."

Ludwig made an odd choking noise, a noise that was replicated by both Italian brothers, as well as Arthur. Both Ludwig and Arthur lunged for Gilbert's phone.

"What's your brother doing for tomorrow's game, Feli?" Gilbert asked, skillfully fending off attempts by his teammates to wrest his phone away from him.

"I don't know, Lovi won't tell me. But I think when he talked to big brother Antonio earlier he said something about _cate_– aah!" A hand pushed Feliciano's face away from the screen before it went blank; the call was cut off in the middle of an Italian swear word, courtesy of Lovino.

"Cater-what?" Arthur repeated.

Gilbert frowned. _"Catenaccio,_ I think. Italian. Ah fuck, what the heck does it mean again? Something about defensive play?"

"That would make sense for Lovino. Ooh, I'd better turn my phone off, just in case they decide to call me."

"Excuse me! You're not going to get the _Luftwaffe _involved tomorrow!" Ludwig thundered, rightly more concerned with the misuse of surgical air strikes rather than worrying over football terminology.

"Of course we're not using your military ("We're not?" Gilbert muttered in disappointment, while Arthur kicked him) at all Ludwig, I swear," Arthur assured. "Although I must say the idea of having Francis being blown to pieces by a BK-27 millimetre autocannon certainly sounds appealing." A particularly malicious smile formed on Arthur's face; the man was obviously imagining the sight.

_"Are you sure?"_ The last thing Ludwig needed was to trigger a five-way international armed conflict in his own backyard – or rather, football pitch.

"Of course I'm sure. Did you really think that I'd let _Gilbert_ work out the details?"

"Good point."

"Hey!" Gilbert protested. "I got little Feli to spill some info, didn't I?"

"I suppose you did," Ludwig reluctantly admitted.

Arthur on the other hand, was frowning. "Don't you think that was a little too easy?"

"What was too easy?" Ludwig asked.

"Feliciano letting that bit about the cater-whatever slip. Do you think anyone would have told him anything about tomorrow's game?"

Gilbert scowled. "Okay, now you're just being paranoid."

Arthur did not look so convinced. "Hmm... maybe. Oh, it doesn't really matter at this point. It won't really change our strategy for tomorrow anyway."

"So can I finally know our tactical plan for tomorrow? Please?" Ludwig grumbled. "We _are_ playing against the current world champion and runner-up. And Antonio's team _is_ the Euro 2008 winner. I certainly don't want to be humiliated on the field tomorrow."

Gilbert stared at him before the man howled in laughter. "West! You're actually excited about this match! Ooh, you just want to get back at them as much as I do!" he gasped, eyes watering in mirth.

Ludwig flushed slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

His brother cackled. "Aha, you can't lie to me! I knew it! You're _still_ miffed about your team losing to Spain in the Euro final! And for getting only third place in the World Cup!"

"I am not!"

"Admit it!"

Ludwig's cheeks were bright red with guilt and embarrassment. _"Shut up!" _he hollered._  
_

Gilbert was beaming. "My baby brother wants to get his revenge on these idiots. I'm so _proud!" _He looked as if he were about to burst into tears of joy.

"All right lads, that's enough," Arthur said, grinning. "Anyway, our strategy. Like I said, Gilbert came up with the basics, and I refined them. Here's what we'll actually do." The Anglo-Prussian-German alliance gathered around in a conspiratory cluster, and listened.

--x--

"Do you think they bought the act?" Lovino wondered.

"What act? Anyway, that was really mean of you, Lovi! Threatening your poor little brother with those awful things just to get him to cooperate!" Antonio scolded as he patted Feliciano, who was still sobbing.

"Waah! I didn't get anything out of Ludwig or big brother Gilbert! And I accidentally told them about your plan! Now I'll never be able to make any pasta ever again!" Feliciano wailed, oblivious to Antonio's attempts at comforting him.

"Oh, stop that! I didn't expect you to get anything out of them anyway, I just wanted you to let them think you accidentally slip out how we're playing tomorrow!"

Feliciano stopped sobbing. "You mean I was supposed to tell them about the _catenaccio?"_ he asked, confused.

"Of course you were! Why do you think I have been yammering about that out loud for the past thirty minutes? I knew you were going to spill something, so I figured out that you might as well give them the wrong information!"

"So does that mean I can have my pasta?" Feliciano asked hopefully.

Lovino groaned. "Yes, you can have all the pasta you want, now just _shut up_ and stop crying, okay? Go ahead and make some now if makes you feel better."

"Ve~!" Feliciano muttered happily before he skipped to the kitchen.

Antonio frowned, a significant sign of disapproval from the usually cheerful nation. "That's just a shady thing to do, Lovi."

Lovino merely harrumphed in response to Antonio's scolding about his little act of deliberate misinformation. Him, shady? The other side wanted to use jet fighters to _shoot_ their goalie. Not that he really cared, since it was only Francis after all. Still, tit for tat.

He knew Antonio would not understand; the man was Spanish. Lovino was Italian, and to Italians, football was more like a battle where survival ruled over all. (While Feliciano was undoubtedly Italian and was a rather gifted player, unfortunately his younger brother prized pasta more than football. Lovino had been forced to accede to Feliciano's requests for quick pasta breaks every twenty minutes during practice, a fact that drove him crazy.) Antonio saw football as an honourable duel – what did you expect from a nation of bullfighters? The Spaniard, in a rare show of absolute firmness, had even insisted that their team use _his_ style of playing for tomorrow.

Ah yes, Lovino looked forward to tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would be able to unleash all of his football fury on that stupid potato bastard.

He grinned.

* * *

**Additional notes:**

i. SIS – Secret Intelligence Service; the UK foreign intelligence service, more popularly known by its former name, MI6.

ii. DGSE - _Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure_; the French foreign intelligence service.


	7. Part 7: The Beautiful Game – First Half

**Author's Note: **Abuse of references to assorted football-related films, use of football songs and chants, as well as stereotypes of various national teams. If that offends you, well, don't go to a footy game. XD Also, if any of you are curious as to what Gilbert & Co. look like in their home kits, try this link:

http:// img248. imageshack. us/ img248/ 4407/ anglogermaniafinal. png

(Delete all the spaces in the above URL. If that doesn't work, click on my profile page - there's a direct link to the image there.)

Addendum on 8 Jan 2010 - scroll all the way down for lyrics of a certain football chant!

* * *

**Of Family, Friends and Football**

**Part Seven: The Beautiful Game – First Half of It, Anyway**

Ludwig was pleasantly surprised that Gilbert had the sense to pick a good time for today's match. Practically everyone would be busy watching their own favourite football clubs' games, so this particular football game did not attract much attention. Arthur had also made a similar comment this morning; he had been concerned that this odd little game of theirs might cause an uproar back home if his people found out he was playing with Germans, bearing in mind the traditional English-German football rivalry. Personally Ludwig never considered himself having an actual football rivalry with Arthur, but it would be another story if his football team had to play against the _Oranje_.

Speaking of other nations, while the locals were uninterested, quite a number of his European colleagues and friends somehow turned up to see the game. He had spotted Roderich and Elizaveta earlier in the parking lot; the big patch of shining blond there at the terrace had to be the five Nordics; the suspicious feline-covered lump was probably Heracles, and there were more nations coming in to watch the game. Oddly enough, most of them were wearing jerseys of their national teams, perhaps thinking it would fit the atmosphere.

It certainly seemed that the match would start off without any incidents, although there was a bit of a ruckus earlier this morning when Francis insisted that a few of his troops from his half of the Franco-German Brigade, armed with portable Mistral surface-to-air missiles, attend the game. Ludwig had mentally cursed his brother for the ridiculous phone conversation with Feliciano last night. (Gilbert even wanted to blog about it 'for psy-war purposes' but Ludwig confiscated his laptop for the night, a move supported by Arthur, who was afraid that Gilbert would end up blogging their game strategy due to his misguided confidence in his self-declared awesomeness.) Fortunately, he managed to convince the Frenchman that no, the _Luftwaffe_ would _not_ be performing any air strikes during the match.

He thought that it was quite a waste how Gilbert would fully utilise his talents for his hobbies or his current (and usually inane) interests such as this match, but refused to do the same for other things like official duties or even simple household chores. When Ludwig had mentioned this to Arthur, the Englishman said that it was probably because Gilbert had been treating this football match like war, and Gilbert took war very seriously.

Ludwig then found himself wondering if he could somehow convince Gilbert that weeding the garden was just another kind of war. Still entertaining the thought, he walked to the other end of the pitch to join his two teammates, who seemed to be in deep discussion.

--x--

Gilbert eyed the spectators at the terrace. It almost felt like an actual exhibition match of sorts, with all the nations showing up. "Shouldn't we officiate this or something?" he asked.

Arthur snorted. "Officiate how? It's a sorry excuse for a footy game to settle an argument!"

The verbal jab was either ignored or more likely, totally lost on Gilbert. "I don't know, maybe you could give a short speech or something before the game starts. Or say a prayer. Don't you have those patron saints – George? Yeah, him and Paul, John and Ringo-"

"Them's the Beatles, idiot."

"Same thing. Heh, I didn't expect a crowd," Gilbert said, still scanning the terraces for familiar faces. "I bet they knew about the game and came today because they read my blog!" he added in excitement.

"Oh, that blog of yours."

"What, don't you read my blog anymore?"

"I check it occasionally, but there was one point I stopped reading it for a while after that time you posted pictures of the stuff in your brother's closet," Arthur said, shuddering. "And people say I'm a pervert?"

"Ha! I remember that post. I can't believe that neat freak organises all that BDSM gear in alphabetical order with colour-coded boxes and everything!" Gilbert frowned for a moment. "Strange, I can't remember West yelling at me for that. I guess he must have missed reading that entry about his closet – oh yeah, he was at some boring summit somewhere."

"What's this about closets?" Ludwig asked curiously when he joined them, only managing to catch the final bits of conversation.

"Nothing!" Gilbert said, grinning innocently. "So how's my brick shithouse little brother feeling today? Ready to kick those losers all over the place, West?"

_"Brick shithouse?"_

"It's one of Arthur's weird English compliments," Gilbert said confidently. "Just like when he says that I have the charisma of a Tesco Value ready meal. That probably means something like I'm awesome, right Arthur?"

"Right," Arthur said, his face perfectly expressionless. "Now put this on," he added, handing a red armband to Gilbert.

"Pull your left sock up, your shinguard is showing," Ludwig pointed out while Arthur absently tucked the label sticking out of Gilbert's collar back in.

"Fine, fine, now will you two OCD freaks _stop _mothering me?" Gilbert grumbled as he put on the armband marking him as the captain of the team, then yanked his sock up.

"So are we sticking to the original plan?" Ludwig asked.

"Yes. I don't care what Feliciano said about that cater-whatsit last night, we're still not changing tactics," Arthur insisted. "Oh, here's another thing for you. Well, not actually for you," he said to their captain. He reached into his pocket and handed Gilbert another item. "It's for your bird."

Gilbert stared at Arthur's gift. "Awesome!" he exclaimed. "Now the little guy's got a jersey too!" He cackled and reached for the little yellow chick perched on his head.

Ludwig stared at the small football jersey; it was a perfect miniature copy of Gilbert's own, down to the ridiculously tiny embroidery of his brother's complex coat of arms. "This is a very good replica," he said in admiration of Arthur's skills with a needle.

Arthur shrugged nonchalantly, but his cheeks were a tell-tale pink. "I had some spare time this morning."

The little chick looked somewhat pleased wearing its new outfit, chirping happily to show its approval before it hopped back on Gilbert's head. "Awesome," Gilbert repeated with a grin, before giving Arthur a bone-crushing hug.

_"Aaaack."_

"Oops," Gilbert said, loosening his hold a little. "Ooh, there's little Feli. I gotta show him this!"

--x--

Feliciano carefully tied the white cloth to the pole and then lifted the makeshift flag to examine his handiwork. "Ve, that should do nicely!" he said to himself, pleased. Now he had some means of cheering for his friends. He was already wearing the _Azzurri_ jersey and had made some delicious pasta to eat at half-time to show his support for Lovino and his brother's teammates, but he also wanted to cheer for the other side – well, they were his friends too, weren't they? Especially Ludwig, who was so nice to him. He was too afraid to wave any of their flags – not even tiny ones, since Lovino would throw a fit and might threaten him to a permanent pasta withdrawal again – so he decided that he would wave a white flag instead, since he was good at that. Besides, Ludwig's team were all dressed in white anyway, right? And if Lovino asked him why was he waving a white flag, he could just say he was just practising or drying out his laundry.

"Hey, little Feli!" Gilbert said enthusiastically, appearing out of nowhere. He picked up the startled younger man by the waist and literally swung him around in greeting. Feliciano, who was well-used to this from not only Gilbert but quite a number of other people, merely submitted to this with a smile and a cheerful "Ve~!"

"Get your dirty hands off my brother, you not-so-macho other potato bastard!" Lovino screeched some distance away, but Francis (bless that French loser, but that doesn't mean I'll take it easy on him, Gilbert thought) distracted the Italian by chasing after him for a grope, thus forcing him to seek refuge behind Antonio.

Gilbert set a slightly dizzy Feliciano back down. "Want to see something really cool?" He carefully reached for his pet bird and showed it to the younger man. The bird cheeped several times in greeting before it hopped around in a circle on Gilbert's outstretched palm, showing off its new jersey.

"Wow, your pet birdie's wearing a jersey just like yours!"

"Yeah, isn't it awesome? Oh, I can't bring the little guy on the pitch, so can you take care of him for me while I'm playing?"

"Sure!"

"By the way, what's with the white flag?"

"I'm gonna wave it around and cheer for Ludwig and you and Arthur! I wanted to make some pasta for you too, but Lovi wouldn't let me." Feliciano hoped that Gilbert would not be offended, but surely he would understand, wouldn't he?

Gilbert merely grinned. "Naah, don't worry too much about the pasta. Did you bring a camera? No? Okay, I'm gonna lend you mine. Take some good pictures of the game for me, all right?"

"I'll do my best!" he vowed, giving a salute.

"Argh, you're so fuckin' _cute_," Gilbert cooed, briefly pinching the Italian's cheeks.

"Eliza's here too. Maybe you can ask her to take some pictures of the game for you too!" Feliciano said helpfully.

"What, her? She's not that into football. I bet she's only here because she wants to see cute boys in shorts – but that's okay since_ I'm_ awesome _and_ cute in shorts!" Gilbert smirked. "Now let's see – where is that brother of mine? West needs to come and say hi to you too! Just to piss your brother off!"

Feliciano was not quite sure how to respond to that, so he just beamed.

--x--

"Hellfire and buggery," Arthur exclaimed, "not them!" He groaned and covered his face with his hands.

"Who?" Ludwig asked. Arthur merely raised one hand, pointed in reply and resumed covering his face before giving another weak groan.

Ludwig looked in the direction the man pointed to and saw two figures looking for a decent spot to watch the match; one was dressed in a blue football jersey, the other in a green one. "Your brothers?" Seeing Arthur nod, he added, "Well that's nice, coming all the way here to cheer for you."

Arthur stabbed a one-eyed look at him from between splayed fingers. "Think again," the Englishman grumbled.

"They're... _not_ here to cheer for you?"

Right on cue, the brother in blue jersey must have noticed both of them, since he stood up and shouted, "Can ye hear the English sing? No, cannie hear a fuckin' thing!" before he was yanked down and forced to take a seat by his green-clad sibling, who grumbled loudly on how the game had not even started for him to start yelling that tune.

Arthur winced. "Oh, that Scottish bastard's definitely _not_ here to cheer for me. Ireland maybe, but I think he's here mostly because he hates Francis' guts for _that _handball. Otherwise _he'd_ be chanting 'stand up if you hate England' at the top of his lungs. Hmm, Wales isn't here... probably back home minding the shop."

"Oh. Your brothers can't be all that bad... can they?"

"Did Gilbert throw rocks at you when you were a little boy? Really _big_ ones?"

"No?"

"Jab you with pointy sticks? Set your hair on fire before kicking you around?"

_"No."_

"Trust me on this one, then. Compared to _my_ brothers, yours is a bloody _saint."_

Well, Arthur had a point. Gilbert may drove him crazy, but at least the man rooted for him at all international events. Gilbert also had never bullied him in his childhood. Rather, back then his elder brother basically beat the _Welfenspeise_ out of anyone who even looked at him funny.

He smiled. No wonder Arthur did not mind Gilbert all that much; the Englishman must have been more than used to ridiculous brother-related antics.

"What's so funny?" Arthur asked suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing."

--x--

While the players were quite ready to start the game, the referee for the match, Arthur opined, was another story.

"Aren't you going to change?"

"Change?" Vash raised an eyebrow.

"Well, it's not really proper for a referee to be on the pitch like that," Arthur said, staring at Vash's current outfit. "I mean, you're almost ready to go with the black jersey and the whistle around your neck, but the jeans and shoes–"

"Who said anything about me going on the pitch?" Vash interrupted.

Arthur stared at him in confusion. "How are you going to do the refereeing then?"

"From right here. Do you seriously think that I need to run around chasing after you lot, not when I have this?" he said, lifting a SIG SG550-1 Sniper out from its factory case and began to assemble it. "A good rifle and scope is all I need to keep an eye on things on the pitch. Unless you have any objections?" he said, eyeing the Englishman.

"No! None at all!" Arthur said nervously, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

"Good."

--x--

So there they were on the pitch, him and Gilbert decked out in their white and black Adidas kits and Predator boots, while Arthur was in his white kit and X-Pro boots courtesy of Umbro. Ludwig was somewhat amused to find that both Francis and Antonio were also wearing Adidas gear. Lovino however, wore a pair of football boots from Lotto's Zhero Gravity range, loudly insisting that he refused to wear 'anything made by that potato bastard'. No one had the heart to tell him that the rest of his kit was from Puma, a German firm. (Not yet, anyway. Gilbert saved that lovely piece of information for use later. Psychological warfare demanded it.)

Arthur and Francis were already arguing, to no one's surprise. Francis had greeted him by calling a football hooligan, and predictably the whole thing had gone downhill from there.

"Do you want to wait until the game, or do you want to make one with me now?" Arthur snarled. "I would be more than happy to skip the whole playing football thing and just kill you this instant."

Francis laughed mockingly. "But Arthur! I'm your big brother! How could you even think of committing fratricide?"

"You are _not_ my 'big brother', you bastard. And even if you were, killing you would only amount to _pesticide_ at the most!"

"Aha! So you _do_ acknowledge that I am your big brother after all!"

Arthur would have lunged for Francis' neck and strangled him there and then if it were not for Vash, who fired a warning shot into the air.

"No funny business before the match!" Vash hissed. It was hard not to listen to a no-nonsense Swiss referee who was armed with a sniper rifle, especially when said Swiss referee would be more than perfectly delighted to use it.

"So," Francis asked cautiously, "how does this whole refereeing business with the gun work?"

"A warning shot is equivalent to a caution or yellow card," Vash explained. "I'll blow the whistle only to award free kicks, penalties, pausing the game if necessary, and stopping the game."

"No verbal reminders?" Antonio asked. Vash merely snorted in the negative.

"What about second yellow cards or red cards?" Ludwig inquired.

"Well, I'll still shoot, obviously. But the offender will be leaving the pitch in a box. Call it a permanent send-off."

Six people collectively gulped, making a rather loud and unpleasant noise.

"Whose bright idea was it to get a referee again?" Francis hissed in an undertone.

Five people glared at Antonio, who merely smiled and shrugged.

"Anyway, the usual Laws of the Game apply," Vash continued, "except there's no offside, since it'd be silly with just the six of you and no linesmen, plus we have those extra rules you drew up in that meeting of yours. All right, captains, get over here for the coin toss."

Gilbert and Antonio approached Vash; Gilbert's loud whoop of excitement a moment later showed he won the toss. The team had discussed earlier on which end of the pitch they wanted to play on first, and thankfully Gilbert stuck to the plan.

Vash nodded. "All right. I want a clean game, got that? I'll be at the stands watching everything you do."

"Yes, let the dog see the rabbit. Shall we, then?" Arthur said, leaving his teammates to walk to their positions on the pitch with their brains clamouring, what does he _mean_, let the dog see the rabbit?

Vash walked back to the stands and made himself as comfortable as possible, lying down on his stomach at the upper terrace. He rested his sniper rifle on the readied tripod, mentally noted the time and put his whistle to his lips. Satisfied that the players from each side were all in their half of the field, he took one last look and then blew hard on the whistle.

Kick-off began with Antonio passing the ball to Lovino, who immediately raced to the goal. Gilbert challenged the Italian for the ball, forcing Lovino to hastily flick it back to Antonio. Arthur however, managed to intercept the pass and cleared the ball out of the penalty box, kicking the ball in a high pass over the heads of the other team, while Gilbert scrambled back up the field to receive it. He ran on and took a shot at the goal, but Francis was there to save the wild attempt.

It was not meant to be a serious scoring attempt anyway, since the whole thing was more of an exercise to quickly get the team used to the pitch and settle into a rhythm, and all of them on the field knew it. The match would only get more exciting later on.

Gilbert, Arthur and Ludwig had all agreed that regardless of what style the other team would be playing, they would be on the defensive for the first half of the game, with the occasional long ball for some goal-scoring opportunities for Gilbert. Gilbert had the necessary speed and height for a striker, but due to being out of practice for so long he was a bit lacking in the precision required for successful finishing. Still, he never got tired of trying – all that sheer bloody-mindedness, Ludwig thought – and they hoped that his persistence would pay off with a goal or two.

Arthur lacked height but made up for it with his good technical skills, making him a suitable midfielder and playmaker, almost an equal match for Antonio. As for Ludwig, Arthur commented that Germans have always been rather masochistic when it came to football with all that will and perseverance under pressure. And like the man and his brother had mentioned, Ludwig _was_ built like a brick shithouse, so he was perfect as defender-cum-goalkeeper. "Besides," Gilbert had added with a smirk, "Lovino just wants to kick that ball into your face, so let's give him the opportunity!"

So far their chosen strategy seemed to be the correct one; regardless of the ridiculous phone conversation last night, the other side was definitely _not_ playing a defensive game. Since Ludwig and his teammates were not aiming to score in the first half, they were somehow able to cope with Lovino and Antonio's combined attacks, although there were occasions where Arthur was forced to clear the ball long into the other half of the pitch, simply in order to get out of a dangerous spot.

The threat of Vash and his rifle certainly had an effect on the players on the pitch. Any sly gamesmanship – exaggerating contact, diving and such – to force the other team to be reluctant to intervene with fouls or to be unsure as to what they can do went out the window, since a bullet was an excellent deterrent for such unsportsmanlike behaviour.

Everyone basically behaved for a while; even Gilbert, who played dirty on automatic. Still, with most of the players being whom they were, namely, a bunch of crazy and stubborn bastards, there was only so much fair play they could take – fifteen minutes' worth, to be exact – before their true natures told their good sense to put a sock in it.

Out of the six players on the field, only Ludwig, Arthur and Antonio were spared the terror of one of Vash's warning shots-cum-yellow cards so far in the first thirty minutes. Lovino was the first to commit an offence when Gilbert cleanly challenged him for the ball. Arthur thought it was for diving, while Ludwig thought it was due to his potty mouth – Vash did not like any swearing if his sister were around, and swearing was something Lovino engaged in very frequently and _loudly;_ the bullet Vash fired whizzed just an inch from his head, causing the Italian to jump in the opposite direction and cling in terror to a confused (yet very pleased) Antonio for a good ten seconds.

Alas, the opportunity presented to score a goal was wasted, as Gilbert was too busy laughing at the panic-stricken Italian to take advantage of the situation. However, Gilbert's amusement, as well as a bit off his messy fringe, was literally cut short as two minutes later he was next to receive a caution for a late tackle on Antonio. _That_ particular shot caused both him _and_ the Spaniard to cling to each other, frozen in fear-tinged surprise.

Francis had received one for winking at Vash's sister after making an impressive one-handed save when Gilbert attempted a wild shot at the goal; the Swiss had shot the bloom off the rose stalk the Frenchman held in his free hand. At first Francis seemed as if he wanted to say more than a few nasty words in protest, but wisely reconsidered since he did not want to risk receiving a second caution for dissent and be sent off the field _permanently,_ not with that evil look on Vash's face. (When Ludwig asked about the incident later, Vash simply said the Frenchman was simply time-wasting. No one felt like arguing.)

The crowd was also rather sporting, with many of the nations present cheering for both sides. Arthur's Irish sibling was more sympathetic to their team then Ludwig had expected, shouting wildly whenever there was an attempt to score one past Francis, although Ludwig wished that he would quit yelling, "If it weren't for the English you'd be a Kraut!" every time Francis made a goal kick. (Gilbert on the other hand, had found his 'You can stick your Eiffel Tower up your arse!' chant sung to _She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain_ rather funny.) As for the Scottish brother – well, his accent was hard to figure out, but Ludwig guessed that whatever he was shouting was not supportive in nature, judging from some of Arthur's more murderous expressions.

The Englishman had been doing rather well so far, but likely some of his brother's more vicious insults had got to him as he was beginning to show some signs of frustration or stress, Ludwig could not say for sure. Whatever it was, the man lost his composure and pulled on Antonio's jersey when he tried to tackle the Spaniard for the ball, and Vash blew his whistle to award a direct free kick.

Arthur wisely chose not to question Vash's decision. 'Sorry,' he mouthed with a rueful expression to Ludwig, who simply shrugged and gave a thumbs-up sign. Things like that happened in football. No point mulling over it, he had to be ready for the direct free kick. Due to the short distance to the goal, it was likely that the other side would make a direct attempt at scoring. Both Arthur and Gilbert moved the required length away for the free kick, while Antonio and Lovino lined up near the ball.

Who would take the free kick? Antonio? Or Lovino? Ludwig narrowed his eyes.

Oh hell, with that evil smile on his face, it just _had_ to be Lovino.

The Italian shot forward and blasted the ball with all his might with the laces of his boot, sending the ball straight just past Ludwig's head. The German barely managed to bring his hands up in time to catch the ball.

Dear god in heaven, that Italian brat could _kick. _Even with gloves on, his fingers _hurt,_ and his teeth were rattling.

"That's it, you brick shithouse!" Gilbert said proudly. The crowd roared in appreciation of a good save, as well as in amusement for his brother's unfortunately loud comment.

Ludwig groaned from the pain and the ridiculous remark. One of these days he should have a talk with Arthur and ask the man to quit using some of his more interesting English phrases around Gilbert, who clearly had no idea what they meant, much less how to use them.

A scowling Lovino mouthed something at him before the Italian ran further up the pitch. Ludwig could not tell what it was, but there was probably a 'potato bastard' in it somewhere. He took a deep breath, exhaled and then kicked the ball back into play.

Then Vash blew his whistle, indicating the end of the first half of the match.

Ludwig breathed a sigh of relief, a gesture mimicked by Arthur. Gilbert however, merely grinned before he ran to Ludwig and tackled the younger man down in an enthusiastic hug.

"Gaah! _Get off!"_

Gilbert ignored him. "West! That was an _awesome_ save! Ha, I knew getting you to play goalkeeper was a great idea! Wait – of course it was a great idea, it was mine!"

Thankfully, Arthur tugged his brother away. "Come on Gilbert, the last thing we need is for you to injure our goalie. We still need to play in the second half!"

"Oh yeah, the second half. Heh heh, things ought to get more interesting then."

"Easy for you to say," Arthur grumbled. "You didn't have to do a shitload of clearing because _somebody_ wasn't where he was supposed to be."

"You were good at it, so why worry? We got this far, didn't we?"

Ludwig silently agreed with Gilbert. They did get this far. Somehow, they had survived the first half and maintained a scoreless draw. He looked forward to the second half, when the team would change tactics.

Like Gilbert said, it would get more interesting.

* * *

**Additional notes:**

i. _Oranje – _nickname of the national football team of the Netherlands.

ii. Franco-German Brigade (FGB) - Made up of French and German troops, the FGB (now part of the Eurocorps) is stationed in various places in Germany as well as near Strasbourg, France.

iii. _Welfenspeise _– a vanilla-flavoured German pudding.

iv. Umbro is an English sportswear manufacturer, Lotto is Italian, while Adidas and Puma are both German. I bet Lovi doesn't notice these things. XD

v. Things will pick up in the second half! More attacks, and more ridiculous antics!

vi. Because quite a number of people asked for it, what Ireland's singing at the match. To be sung to the tune of _She'll Be Coming Around the Mountain_:

_You can stick your Eiffel Tower up your arse,_

_You can stick your Eiffel Tower up your arse,_

_You can stick your Eiffel Tower, you can stick your Eiffel Tower,_

_You can stick your Eiffel Tower up your arse, **SIDEWAYS!**_

(Actual football chant used at most matches vs France. Best if done in a group, with emphasis on volume on 'Sideways!' I told you all the footy songs I know are mostly rude, didn't I?)


	8. Part 8: The Beautiful Game – What's Left

**Author's Note: **More abuse of football songs, ridiculous footy jokes, stereotypes of various national teams and fans, references to a 2009 handball incident, swearing, as well as Scotland and Ireland shouting ridiculous things. (Oh come on, have you been to a Scotland vs England or Ireland vs England game?)

Also, lame attempt at drawing Lovino in his kit:

http:// img254. imageshack. us/ img254/ 6080/ lovinoazzurri. png

(Delete all the spaces in the above URL. If that doesn't work, click on my profile page - there's a direct link to the image there.)

* * *

**Of Family, Friends and Football**

**Part Eight: The Beautiful Game – What's Left of It, Anyway**

It was almost like your typical football match, Arthur mused at half-time.

Players? Obviously.

Spectators? Definitely.

Rude and possibly drunk spectators? Oh yes indeed. He winced as his brother broke into another rude football chant.

"This old man, he told me, Arthur looks like a soft tattie, with a knick-knack paddywhack give the dog a bone, England should just sod off home!"

Brother or no, he was going to _kill_ that Scottish bastard later.

The only thing missing so far was the usual verbal abuse of the referee found in football matches everywhere, but it was understood that today's match was an extraordinary exception due to the referee being an armed and short-tempered Swiss with an itchy trigger finger.

"What does 'soft tattie' mean?" Gilbert asked.

"Don't answer that," Ludwig grumbled. "And don't even think of using it in conversation either!" he added, looking sharply at his brother, who snorted at him in reply.

"Wouldn't dream of it." Arthur sat down on the bench and wiped his face with a towel. He fished in his bag for a bottle of Lucozade and an energy bar. His teammates were also having energy chocolate bars and sports drinks. They would need all the extra strength for the second half.

Suddenly, both Ludwig and Gilbert turned to Arthur, frowning. "Could you stop that? It's not exactly good for _our _morale, you know," Ludwig grumbled.

"Huh? Oh, sorry. Habit." Arthur did not realise he was humming The Dambusters march. "Still touchy about that all these years...." he muttered under his breath. "What's the other side doing anyway?" he asked.

Gilbert stood up and squinted at the other side of the pitch. "I think they're eating. Oh yeah, our little Feli told me he made pasta for his brother's team. Lots and lots of delicious pasta." He smirked.

"Did he now?" Arthur replied. "I hope they have a nice hearty meal then."

The two men exchanged mischievous looks.

"There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?" Ludwig accused, always alert to anything suspicious. "You two had better not be up to anything stupid."

Gilbert said rather loftily, "Don't be ridiculous. We're not going to do anything, they've already done it to themselves."

"Come again?"

"Never mind that," Arthur said, hastily changing the subject. "Remember Ludwig, basically you're pretty much on your own for the second half. Gilbert and I are going for an all-out attack, so I won't be around much to defend. Then again, I doubt the other team will be able to keep on attacking like they did in the first half anyway."

"What makes you say that?"

Gilbert smirked. "You'll see."

--x--

Ludwig wiped the sweat off his brow. Gilbert was right; the second half of the game was more interesting than the first.

He certainly had to do more work in comparison to the first half, due to his teammates concentrating more on attacking rather than defending. Fortunately, he had managed to save all of Antonio's and Lovino's attempts at scoring so far. Lovino's attempts were quite easy to save; the Italian seemed to be obsessed with hitting him in the face with the ball, rather than actually scoring a goal.

Perhaps Arthur was right about him being more than a bit of a masochist when it came to football. His hands hurt, but he did not mind the pain much; it was worth it just to see the increasing frustration on Lovino's face.

Antonio's shots were a bit more tricky to deal with, but Ludwig had successfully saved the two attempts he had made. Fortunately, the Spaniard seemed to be content with letting Lovino do most of the scoring attempts. The next attempt at goal-scoring however, was not from the Italian.

Antonio straight-on approach gave very few clues as to where the Spaniard was aiming his shot at the goal. Right? Left? Centre? Antonio was right-footed, but that certainly did not stop him from making an attempt with his left.

Ludwig's eyes narrowed.

_Right foot!_

Ludwig dove to the side, but that small moment of hesitation had cost him. True, he had correctly judged the direction of the kick, but had underestimated the height Antonio aimed for. His outstretched hand barely grazed the ball; was that slight contact enough to throw the ball off its trajectory? He certainly hoped so as he watched the ball sail in the direction of the crossbar.

His heart sank when he realised it was not enough. The ball bounced off the inside of the crossbar and went into the net.

Vash blew his whistle, and Lovino did the rare act of voluntarily hugging Antonio. Francis whooped and barely remembered in time not to blow any kisses to the stands. The crowd clapped and cheered to the maiden goal, but Ludwig barely heard any of it.

He turned to his teammates and raised his hands slightly in a gesture of apology. Arthur merely shook his head and mouthed, 'It's OK', while Gilbert grinned and made a thumbs-up sign before the two went to get ready for the kick-off.

The game resumed and Ludwig vowed to observe Antonio's movements more carefully. He would not allow himself to make a second mistake, and watched the man like a hawk. About fifteen minutes into the second half, Ludwig frowned. Was he imagining things, or was Antonio a little bit slower compared to the first half? Even though he did just score a goal, the man's movements appeared to be more relaxed – wait, did he just _yawn?_

Ludwig blinked.

Only then did the German realise what was going on.

No wonder Gilbert had insisted on picking the time for the match. If Ludwig remembered correctly from Gilbert's stories about his friends, usually Antonio would take a short nap – a siesta, that was the term – after his mid-day meal. And Antonio certainly had a hearty mid-day meal, for no one could resist Feliciano's pasta.

Delicious, sauce-laden, carbohydrate-heavy pasta.

He looked at the yawning Antonio, then at his brother. He shook his head.

Ludwig had to admit, Gilbert was _good._

--x--

"About bloody time," Arthur had muttered when he noticed the slight listlessness afflicting his midfielder counterpart. When Gilbert had discussed his plan some time ago with Arthur, the Englishman was quite reluctant to go along with the idea, but decided that it had some merits. Feliciano bringing pasta for the other team was an unexpected, but not unwelcomed bonus. It was a gamble, hoping that Antonio would stick to his usual habits, but Arthur had prepared a backup plan just in case Antonio could forego his siesta after all. It was not much of a backup plan, but it was a better one than Gilbert's, which involved the _Deutsches Heer_ and at least two fully-armed Eurocopter Tiger attack helicopters.

As for their original plan – well, Ludwig would have called it sneaky. However, considering that the frog had tried to hack into Arthur's computer (and Gilbert's, but they had decided not to tell Ludwig since they were not sure what the German would do in retaliation) and god knows what _else_, Arthur preferred to think that both teams were fairly even in the being sneaky department. Besides, like Gilbert mentioned earlier, Antonio's current affliction – he wondered if they noticed it just yet, the fools – was something their opponents did to themselves.

Fortunately, their team had a bit more energy than the other side, since they had chosen to mostly defend in the first half. It was not much of an advantage, but enough to make it a bit easier for Arthur to move past Antonio. Even though the Spaniard was in a siesta mood, the man was still someone to be reckoned with. Antonio dogged him as he ran on the left side of the field, not giving him an opportunity to pass the ball to Gilbert.

Arthur was running out of room; he was already more than halfway up the other side's half of the pitch and it seemed that Antonio wanted to force him to either make a desperate and easily-intercepted pass to Gilbert, or take his chances and try to obtain a corner kick.

Then again, maybe he did not have to pass the damned ball to Gilbert after all.

"Bend it! Bend it!" yelled someone from the stands, who apparently shared the same thought in Arthur's mind.

Arthur kicked the ball into the air, applying the correct amount of force on the ball's side with the inside of his foot in order to make it spin. The ball sailed up in a slight curve. Francis rushed out of the goalmouth in the expectation that Arthur was making a long cross to where Gilbert was waiting not too far from the right corner; the Frenchman hoped to intercept the ball before it got there.

Francis certainly was _not_ expecting the ball to sail past his outstretched hand and instead of arcing toward the awaiting striker, curve right into the far corner of the net.

Vash blew his whistle, while the crowd roared.

"Eat my goal, frog!" Arthur announced, pointing at Francis, who was looking back over his shoulder in disbelief.

Ludwig's loud voice boomed from their end of the pitch; the German was shouting his approval at Arthur's equaliser. Gilbert on the other hand, simply rushed towards the Englishman and literally lifted him up in an excited hug. "Arthur, you bastard," he exclaimed, "that was so cool!"

"Thank you," Arthur managed to croak; the man may be a bit on the thin side, but Gilbert certainly had a strong grip. "Now put me down!" he gasped.

"Oh yeah," Gilbert said and did as he was told, but not before giving a final squeeze.

"We shouldn't celebrate just yet," Arthur reminded him, "we still need to win the match."

Gilbert grinned and patted Arthur's right shoulder. "Working on it."

--x--

As much as Gilbert hated to admit it, he was beginning to get tired. A quick glance showed him that he was not the only one; even Arthur was starting to show signs of fatigue. The Englishman's expression was as calm as ever, but Gilbert could tell by the way the man moved that he was literally running on his reserves. Not really surprising, since Arthur did do most of the work in the first half.

And besides, he thought with a superior smirk, Arthur was not awesome as he was.

But even with the pasta-overdose plus siesta-lethargy factors afflicting the other team's midfielder, they were still at a draw with not much time left in the game, and he certainly did not want the game to go into extra time.

Perhaps it was time, Gilbert decided, to use his secret weapon.

--x--

Lovino was annoyed.

While being annoyed was generally the Italian's default mood, today's game certainly displeased him more than usual. They were already leading and that stupid Francis just had to fail to save that English bastard's goal.

And now that potato bastard's brother was being incredibly irritating, shadowing every single move Lovino made. Swearing and insulting the man did not have the expected effect of making his opponent lose his concentration; so far his choicest insults only made that other potato bastard cackle in amusement. Lovino wondered if it were partly because he was unable to actually _shout_ his favourite insults, due to fear of Vash and his strict refereeing.

That platinum blond potato-eating freak was now running alongside Lovino. Just _running,_ not even attempting to steal possession of the ball. "Hey, Lovi! Wanna know something good?" he asked with that annoying smirk on his face.

"What, that you're going to lose?"

"No," Gilbert said, his smirk growing even bigger. "Did you know that your precious kit's made by one of ours?"

Lovino choked.

Wait, Puma was German? It couldn't be... could it?

_Oh shit._

There was no way he would have allowed such a heretical thing to occur – oh no, he knew for a fact that he had hammered into Feliciano's skull that _no way_ would their national team be wearing Adidas, and Feliciano had assured him that the national football kit would be from another firm, one 'that had a cute kitty logo'.

And Feliciano never told him that other firm just happened to be German.

That only meant one thing; that potato bastard must have coerced Feliciano into this – _this blasphemy_ that was the national kit!

Lovino froze when he spotted his younger brother, who was furiously waving that ridiculously huge white flag on the terrace, cheering with all his might. Sure enough, Feliciano was shouting his name, but his brother was also yelling... for the other team?

"Feliciano! You – _you–!"_

Unfortunately, no amount of sputtering and half-hearted swearing was going to change the situation he was in. Thanks to his potato bastard-influenced idiot of a younger brother whom he foolishly had trusted to take care of the national team – and had the _cheek_ to cheer for the other side, oh no, Feliciano would _not_ have any pasta for at least a month, Lovino vowed – _he_ was wearing a full set of sportswear of unholy, unclean, macho-tainted _potato bastardness_. And ran in it and sweated in it and oh dear lord in heaven the jersey was _clinging to his skin_–

Lovino never felt so defiled in his entire life.

_"CHIGI~!" _

--x--

His Italian quarry literally stunned by a revelation, Gilbert swooped in for the kill.

"Pay attention to your kit providers next time, little Lovi!" he sing-songed and ran off with the ball, making his way swiftly into the other team's half of the pitch.

Antonio looked as if he could not decide what to do; run to his precious Lovino and ask the Italian why was he whimpering, or go after Gilbert and avoid being smacked by an angry Lovino later for abandoning the match. Deciding the former would be a more suitable course of action, the Spaniard raced after the Prussian, but not before throwing a worried glance at his former charge.

Gilbert flicked the ball to Arthur just in time to avoid losing it from Antonio's tackle.

"You're not the only one who can play Tic Tac football!" Arthur yelled to Antonio, flicking the ball back to Gilbert when the Spaniard ran after him.

_"Tiqui-taca!"_ Antonio corrected (with a smile, even).

With Lovino rendered immobile due to the issue of kit manufacturing, which Gilbert smugly noted was _not_ an offence under the Laws of the Game nor the match's Additional Rules of Engagement, poor Antonio had no chance in trying to contend with the Anglo-Prussian duo.

Playing the classic one-two combination, Arthur would flick the ball to Gilbert on the right, and then moved further up for Gilbert's return pass, while Antonio would vainly try to take possession of the ball. Passing back and forth without a pause, the duo dashed up the field and soon approached the penalty area. Both of them knew that the game was already on injury time; if this attempt was unsuccessful, Vash would signal for the end of the half and the match would go into extra time.

Arthur rushed towards the goal, an evil expression on his face, and kicked. Francis hesitated for a slight second, clearly remembering Arthur's curved shot earlier, but by the time he realised the ball's actual trajectory, it was already too late.

Gilbert slipped past Francis to receive the short cross and headed the ball into the net.

Vash blew his whistle and as cliché as it sounded, it was true – the crowd went wild. Gilbert pumped his hands in the air and yelled in excitement; the next thing he knew both Arthur and Ludwig had tackled him down, Arthur yelling in English, Ludwig in German, but both of them clearly elated with the winning goal.

It hurt, Ludwig hugging him tightly like that, but at least his little brother was not being mushy about the whole thing, so it was all right. And besides, that was the thing to do to the winning goal-scorer; you lifted him up into the air and cheered for him, Gilbert thought.

The few moments afterward were a blur; Gilbert remembered the formality of a kick-off and then Vash blew two long whistles, indicating that the match was over. He was still elated over his goal. His goal that won the game.

They had _fucking_ won the game.

However, no one expected that the action on the field was not over just yet.

Antonio was helping a dejected Francis up, when the loud and unmistakable sound of Lovino swearing in Italian caught everyone's attention.

"It's all your fault we lost!" Lovino screeched as he ran towards the Frenchman and the Spaniard, his eyes blazing with undisguised fury.

"But Lovi-"

Poor Antonio never got to finish his sentence, which was probably better off for him in the long run. When Gilbert talked to him some days after the match, Antonio told his friend that he was going to cheerfully point out that they might have won if Lovino had not been aiming for Ludwig's face all this time and instead had concentrated on actually scoring goals. _That _would have earned the Spaniard a fate worse than today's.

What happened next was almost as entertaining as the game.

--x--

To this day, Ludwig was not sure whether the fact that his people were ignorant of this special international football match was a blessing, or a curse.

Perhaps it was a blessing, since none of them would witness just how ridiculous nations actually behaved when they played football. Or perhaps it was a curse, because due to lack of awareness of the international game and the TV coverage that usually went with it, the people of Europe – no, the world – had been unable to witness an incredibly rare event in the history of the sport where a furious _Azzurri_ took down _both_ _Les Blues_ and _La Furia Roja_ at the same time with a flying clothesline, Lovino's extended arms hitting Francis and Antonio in their necks, knocking the two unfortunate nations over to the ground. Still not satisfied, the Italian grasped a fistful of Francis' jersey and punched him, before he tugged Antonio up and headbutted the stunned Spaniard.

Apparently Lovino did have some courage, Ludwig thought; the surly Italian just needed a dose of football to bring it out. And strangely enough, for some reason this did not surprise him one bit.

"Holy crap!" Gilbert exclaimed with undisguised delight. "When the fuck did that kid learn some wrestling moves?"

"Who cares? More importantly, did anyone get that on camera? Someone, _please_ tell me you got that on camera!" Arthur yelled.

Feliciano's hand was the first in the air, while several other nations followed suit, waving their digital cameras and cellular phones.

"I want those pictures!" both Arthur and Gilbert demanded, rushing to the terrace.

Lovino's outburst of violence seemed to be an encouragement for pitch invasion, for the next thing Ludwig knew, one of Arthur's brothers jumped from his seat and dashed down to the pitch. He lunged for Francis, who had just got back on his feet.

"Thierry Henry _this,_ you feckin' streak of piss!" the Irishman yelled as he socked Francis in the chin. His blue-clad brother immediately rushed down the terrace to join him in the brawl, even though just a while ago the man was shouting things in Francis' favour. Not that it was much of a surprise, since Arthur's Scottish sibling had struck Ludwig as the sort who would buy two seats for every football match he attended; one to sit in, and the other to rip out and throw when the fighting started.

Then again, perhaps it was just a brotherly thing to do for Scotland, although Ludwig doubted that _he_ would cheerfully get into a fistfight that Gilbert just happened to start. (Well, Ludwig _would_ get himself involved but definitely not in such good spirits, and Gilbert would go down from one of his own punches before he dragged his brother home.) Or maybe it was just a British Isles thing. Arthur may tried to present himself as a distinguished gentleman, but the man did possess a mean and violent streak.

Or maybe, and more likely, football just made them _all_ insane, himself included.

He wondered if Vash would intervene and resolve the current mayhem on the field, but the Swiss had disappeared; presumably he had gone off home with his sister. Ludwig did not blame him one bit.

Arthur returned, satisfied with promises made by the other nations to email him pictures of the match later. Gilbert however, seemed to be encouraging Feliciano to take a few more pictures of the current brawl on the field, before he returned with his digital camera and pet bird, sniggering. Ludwig gave Arthur a significant look before pointing at the ruckus his brothers were making.

"Oh, all right," grumbled Arthur. "Oi! You lot! Quit it!" he yelled to his brothers as he walked towards the spirited non-verbal discussion regarding a certain handball. With the ease that could only come from years of experience, the Englishman calmly went to the ongoing melee and (rather reluctantly, Ludwig observed) dragged his two brothers away from poor Francis, whom by now was sporting a black eye as well as a split lip.

"You're a spoilsport, ya wee bawbag!" Scotland yelled in protest.

"Shut _up,_ you fuckwit. We're not at home, if you haven't noticed."

"Yer maw–"

"His ma's _our_ ma too, ye bleedin' eeijet. Now shut that gob."

Ludwig prayed that his brother was not listening closely, or if he were, the thick accents would be too much for him. Gilbert learning strange English phrases and insults from Arthur was bad enough.

"Have you got all that out of your system yet?" Arthur asked.

"Not all of it, but it'll do for now," replied the Irishman. "I'm savin' the rest for later. Keep in mind though, was only shoutin' for ye 'cause of the barse-faced French shitehawk bastard. Don't be expecting the same in other occasions."

"Duly noted. Now fuck off home."

"Alright. I'd murder for a pint right now. Ye comin'?"

Arthur shook his head. "No, I'm still not done here. You two go on ahead. And for pity's sake, don't cause any trouble on your way back."

The Irishman shrugged. "Be seeing you." He tugged their other Scottish sibling by the collar and both of them left the pitch, whistling.

"This calls for a celebration!" Gilbert announced.

"We still need to sort out that mess first," Ludwig pointed out.

Lovino was still raining rather feeble punches on poor Antonio, who was trying to get the smaller man to calm down. Feliciano had wisely chosen a strategic retreat and was clinging to Roderich and Elizaveta as they left for the parking lot, the latter promising to shelter the former for the day if Lovino was still mad at him. (Good thing too, because Ludwig had not tidied up this morning due to the game; it would be embarrassing if the Italian had sought refuge at his house, since the whole place was a mess.) The rest of the nations were starting to leave, with a few choosing to stay behind to see the outcome of the follow-up Italy and Spain duel. Francis was still lying on the pitch, whimpering.

"Forget those idiots, they'll be fine on their own. Antonio and Francis can take care of themselves. Let's go, West!" Gilbert said, his lower lip sticking out slightly in a pout.

"Don't start," Ludwig warned. "That pouting thing is getting old."

Gilbert snorted. "You're just jealous because I'm a sexy motherpucker."

_"Sexy mother–"_

Arthur barely covered his mouth in time to stop himself from laughing. "Don't look at me. He came up with that one himself!" he protested when Ludwig glared at him.

"Don't argue with your awesome brother, West. Let's just get ourselves and Arthur a _real_ drink instead of that boring ale."

"I _like_ ale," Arthur growled.

"You won't after I get some proper beer in you," Gilbert replied with a smirk. "Now let's get changed and go!"

--x--

While Ludwig was not opposed to celebrating their victory with a round of drinks at the local pub, he certainly was not too keen on the idea of drinking with Arthur. Arthur had an established reputation for being a hopelessly sad drunk, after all. At first he was doing quite all right; the man and Gilbert were even teaching each other some football songs for a while, but it was only a matter of time before the alcohol got to their English teammate. Surprisingly, Gilbert had come up with a solution to prevent their victory celebration from being marred by a round of hysterical weeping from their somewhat plastered friend.

"At least you're not calling it soccer like that fool Alfred," Arthur grumbled. He sniffled. "Alfred.... Why did that idiot have to go independent?"

"Oh shit, there he goes again," Gilbert grumbled. "Here Arthur, look at this!" he said, shoving his digital camera at the Englishman, who was starting to sob. "Come on, look at that shot of Francis there. Lookie at him getting a black eye! See?" he cooed, gently grasping Arthur's chin and turning the man's face to look at the display screen.

Arthur's sobs died down, and slowly gave way to a fit of mad snickering. "God, that is such a _brilliant_ picture. Remind me to send Feliciano a gift basket."

"Sure, sure."

"By the way," Ludwig said, "you did say this whole thing started because you wanted to settle an argument you had with Antonio and Francis."

Gilbert nodded. "Yeah, they kept teaming up against yours truly right here. Hell, I _know_ I'm much more awesome than both of them put together, but the whole everybody-against-Gilbert thing gets boring after a while."

"Well yes, but what were you arguing about in the first place?"

Gilbert fell silent for a few moments. "You know what, I can't fucking remember," he finally admitted.

Arthur stared at him. "You don't remember."

"Nope!"

Arthur looked as if he were about to say something rather snappish, but changed his mind in favour of a shrug before he said, "Doesn't matter, at least I got to beat Francis."

"Why did you pick football to settle the whole thing anyway?" Ludwig asked.

"Oh, it was on the TV at the time."

Arthur laughed at Ludwig's incredulous expression. "Count your blessings, it could've been worse."

"How so?" Ludwig sighed.

"Could've been a war film showing."

Ludwig shuddered. "Good point."

"The whole thing's daft, I don't know why. You have to laugh, or else you cry," Arthur sang what was probably a verse from another one of his football songs. Whatever it was, Ludwig found himself wholeheartedly agreeing with the more than slightly tipsy Englishman.

Maybe _he_ was getting tipsy as well.

"Ooh, you haven't taught me that one yet. You know, that loser Francis brought some wine with him. Said he was going to use it to celebrate when his team won." Gilbert sniggered. "I should've taken that bottle with us to drink."

_"Bier auf Wein, das lasse sein. Wein auf Bier, das rat' ich dir," _Ludwig faithfully recited.

"What does that mean?" Arthur asked.

"Just some drinking advice West believes in. Don't drink wine before beer, drink it after or else you're screwed."

"Really? We have something like that back home. 'Beer then whiskey mighty risky, whiskey then beer you're in the clear' is what we say."

Gilbert stared at him. "Isn't that backwards? No wonder you can't hold your drink."

Arthur paused in the middle of raising his glass to ponder it over. "Sod it, who cares," he said before he resumed drinking his beer.

"Hey, we should take a picture."

"For your blog?" Ludwig asked.

"Well yeah, and for us!"

"Let's get somebody to take the camera then," Arthur suggested.

"Don't bother, I'm an expert of taking pictures of myself." Gilbert moved so he sat closer to Ludwig on the right, with Arthur following suit on the left side. "All right, lift your glasses up." He extended his left arm far in front of the trio with his digital camera firmly in hand, ready to take a picture. "Ready?" he asked, his finger on the button.

"Ready."

_"Lächeln!" _

_Click._

--x--

The victory celebration had to be cut short, much to Gilbert's disappointment, since Arthur had to catch his flight home. After saying their goodbyes and Arthur exacting a promise from Gilbert to email him pictures of the game – especially the ones of Francis getting beaten up – the two brothers went home. Predictably, Gilbert had rushed to his room once they returned from the airport; his brother wanted to update his blog.

When Ludwig checked on Gilbert later in the evening, the man was already asleep. The football game must have tired him out. Ludwig was feeling a touch fatigued himself and decided that it would be a good idea to go to bed a bit early. Still, there was one thing left to do on his routine. He went to his computer to check Gilbert's blog and was amused at what his brother had written for the day's entry.

_Saturday:_

_We were fucking awesome today! I knew we would win!_

_2-1_

_2-1!_

_HAHAHAHAHA YOU SUCK AND WE'RE AWESOME_

Then Gilbert posted the picture he had taken of the team in the pub, with a rather apt caption:

_'The victorious Anglo-Prussian-German alliance celebrating their awesome triumph against the Franco-Spanish-Italian loser brigade.' _

There were already a few comments from other nations on the entry, mostly congratulating on their victory. Francis and Antonio however, did not leave any comments; Francis probably because he was still nursing his injured face, while Antonio was not the sort of person who held a grudge over a football game – or more likely, did not even think of checking the blog in the first place. The only person from the losing team to comment was Lovino, who had left a short message in a big red font:

_I HATE YOU BASTARDS._

Below Lovino's comment were replies from his teammates:

'_Sore loser, aren't we?' - Arthur_

_'He's just jealous because we're awesome and he's not. Right, West?' - Gilbert_

Giving in to a rare childish impulse, Ludwig clicked on the 'reply' button and typed just a single word.

_'Right.'_

He hit the enter key, smiled and went to bed.

* * *

**Additional notes:**

i. tattie - potato; soft tattie – soft potato

ii. Ireland v France handball incident – GUESS WHO. Also, in my head, Ireland represents both Republic and Northern Ireland (hence the Ireland rugby union team). So he gets two football teams, his own place and _still_ gets to poke his nose in Arthur's business. Heh heh.

iii. The song Arthur's singing in the pub is called _Tom Hark._

iv. Just the epilogue to go, and then we're done!


	9. Epilogue

**Of Family, Friends and Football**

**Epilogue: The Aftermath**

He opened the door.

"Ve~ Hi Ludwig~!" Feliciano greeted before hugging him.

"Hello, Feliciano," Ludwig replied, submitting to the over-enthusiastic gesture of affection. "Come on in."

The Italian skipped inside. "Ve, Ludwig," Feliciano whined, "I'm sorry to bother you so much. I stayed over at big sis Eliza's place last night, but she said she couldn't send me home since she promised to go out with Roderich today and she says she can't let him go out alone since he'd get lost. I didn't drive to the game, since I went with Lovi and I think he's still angry with me so I didn't want to call him to pick me up because he'd yell at me so then Roderich suggested that I should ask you if you could drive me back home–"

"Of course I'll drive you home," Ludwig interrupted the Italian before he could get to his wailing stage. Roderich had called Ludwig last night to explain things, so he knew about the whole thing anyway. "Now just let me get some things sorted out in the kitchen, and then we can leave."

"Oh, were you cooking? Pasta?" Feliciano asked hopefully.

"No, I baked some cakes, actually. I was in the middle of packing them in boxes when you rang the doorbell." He had made the cakes with the intention of dropping off a box each at Roderich's and Elizaveta's as thanks for sheltering Feliciano from Lovino's wrath, as well as for something for the Italian to snack on during the drive. True, it was not the Italian's precious pasta, but Feliciano seemed to enjoy his culinary creations anyway.

"Okay! Let's go!"

"Just a moment. I need to tell Gilbert we're going out."

The man in question was lying fast asleep on the couch, hugging one of his stuffed pandas to his chest. Ludwig was thankful that at least he was not drooling on the cushions. Yet.

"Gilbert," Ludwig said, shaking his brother gently on the shoulder.

Gilbert did not budge, but his pet bird did. It gave a little hop, as if it were annoyed at being disturbed from its nap. Sometimes Ludwig wondered if the bird chose to make itself at home on Gilbert's head because the little thing honestly mistook that messy mop of hair for an actual bird's nest.

"Mmrggghhhuuuuum," Gilbert replied. From experience, Ludwig knew that grunt meant, 'Go away West, it's too early'.

"Gilbert! Wake up!" Ludwig thundered.

"Grffmm!" Gilbert grunted before he turned his back on Ludwig, clasping the panda over his head. Even Feliciano could tell that meant, 'Fuck off.'

"He's not waking up, ve~" Feliciano pointed out.

Judging from his brother's stubborn set of shoulders, Ludwig knew that any following verbal methods of trying to get Gilbert to move would be futile, since his brother was just in _that_ mood where he would cling to the couch by his teeth if necessary. No matter. Ludwig had several ways of dealing with a particular brat of an elder brother who refused to get up. He need not resort to physical force either, since violence would certainly upset Feliciano.

Ludwig trotted off into the kitchen and returned with one of the boxes of cakes he had prepared. He opened the box and waved his hand over it, slowly filling the living room with the absolutely mouth-watering aroma of freshly-baked cakes.

Three... two... one...

Gilbert sprang awake, sitting bolt upright and yelling, "Whatever it is, West, I want a piece of it!"

Feliciano caught the panda Gilbert had sent flying in his excitement, and giggled.

"Hey!" Gilbert growled when he realised that he had just been tricked into waking up. "Dammit West, that's mean. So give me that piece of – _ooh,_ is that apple cake?" He brightened.

"You can have one slice," Ludwig replied, deftly side-stepping Gilbert's clumsy tackle for the box, "if you promise to watch the house while I'm gone."

"Sure, sure. Now gimme!"

Ludwig handed Gilbert one pre-cut slice of the cake, which the man promptly shoved into his mouth. "I'm driving Feliciano home. Don't forget to water the plants and walk the dogs – are you listening to me?"

Gilbert was hugging their Italian guest and pinching his cheeks. "Yeah, I'm listening. Watch the house, walk the plants, water the dogs–"

_"Gilbert!"_

"I'm kidding!"

Ludwig sighed. "Anyway, I'll be back around five. I left something in the microwave for lunch." Satisfied at Gilbert's affirmative nod, he went into the kitchen to get the rest of the boxes and then grabbed his jacket. Then he remembered. "Oh, I almost forgot. Arthur came by this morning and dropped this off for you. You were still asleep. I asked him to come in, but he said he didn't have the time." Ludwig handed Gilbert a small gift-wrapped package.

"Wow, a present!" Feliciano said. "There's a card, too."

Gilbert looked at the card. It read:

_The next time you want to settle a stupid argument, use this._

_- Arthur -_

_P.S. Unless you're up against Francis; then whatever it is - call me, I'm in._

Gilbert eyed the package curiously for a few seconds before he tore away at the wrapping. Then he looked at the actual gift for a long moment before he broke into a grin, and then collapsed in hysterical laughter.

"Ve~ isn't big brother Gilbert too old for snakes and ladders?" Felicano said, staring in confusion at the children's game set.

--x--

He had already packed his precious laptop in its backpack, as well as a few other things in an overnight bag. Earlier, he had stuck a note on the refrigerator with one of the cute rabbit magnets Kiku gave him for Christmas, telling his brother that he was off sight-seeing for a few days so don't worry, and yes, your awesome big brother is going to bring back a nice souvenir for you.

Now he just needed to make a phone call.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Arthur. It's me." Gilbert paused. Was that yelling in the background? Some of the voices sounded familiar.

"Yes, Gilbert. What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to thank you for the gift."

Arthur chuckled. "You're welcome. Is that all?"

"I was thinking," Gilbert began carefully, "that I haven't been to your place for a while. So I wanted to come over and maybe we can watch this _really_ awesome video I made of the football match."

"Now's not a good time–"

"What is all that shouting?" he interrupted when he heard an angry shout from Arthur's end.

"It's nothing, really," Arthur replied, but the man sounded more than just a little tense.

"Nothing?" Gilbert paused when he heard some more yelling, followed by what sounded like a heavy crash. "Yeah, right. I know you Brits are supposed to be tough as nails and all that shit, but if _that_ was your definition of nothing, I'd hate to see what you people call noise."

Arthur let out a heavy sigh. "Look Gilbert, it's just that I have some company over right now – or else I wouldn't mind you visiting for a bit."

Company? Gilbert heard another spectacular crash that even made _him_ wince. "Who?"

Another sigh. "That stupid lot I am forced to call my siblings, that's who."

"What the hell are they doing? Sounds like a wild party."

"Somebody," Arthur hissed in a way that made it clear that _somebody_ was certainly _not_ the Englishman, "decided that since the Krauts ("Hey!" Gilbert protested, but Arthur ignored him) have clearly had some nice brotherly bonding time over a recent footy game, then _we_ should have some nice brotherly bonding time of our own over rugby."

Rugby? Gilbert blinked.

Francis had tried to teach him how to play it a few times, but the Frenchman kept getting distracted – like Gilbert had mentioned to Feliciano at the football game, he looked awesome _and_ cute in shorts – so the teaching attempts had all ended with him punching a grope-happy Francis a few times before he stomped off home. Therefore, Gilbert never managed to learn much about the sport, but from what little bits he saw on TV, rugby involved a bunch of people crashing into each other, intent on doing maximum damage. There was an odd-shaped ball in use somewhere, but from what he had seen on the TV screen the ball seemed to be a rather unimportant part of the game. "Really?" he prompted. "All that noise is starting to sound rather awesome. And fun!"

"It is certainly not awesome and nor is it fun if they're playing rugby indoors, _in my house!"_ Arthur raged. Right on cue, there was another crash. "For fuck's sake take it outside!" yelled the man, presumably to his siblings. "Oh, sorry. Still there?"

"Yeah. I could come over and help you out if you want," he offered.

_"You_ know how to play a game of rugger?" Arthur's disbelief was obvious.

"No, but you can explain it to me."

"Rugby's rather complicated, Gilbert."

"So's the offside rule in football. If _you_ can explain the offside rule, then you can explain how to play rugby," Gilbert argued. "Besides, I'm awesome. Rugby should be easy for me."

"Oh ha ha. Come off it, what do you really want?"

Gilbert wondered if Arthur knew him more than he had realised (yeah, right), or if the man had been hanging around Ludwig too much (no, not really), or perhaps all younger brothers attain in adulthood an in-built mysterious sense that automatically warns them whenever all elder brothers were up to something (rather scary, but possible). "Look, I just want to hang out at your place for a while."

"Whatever for?"

"Do you know what today is?"

"Monday."

"Yeah. Today's also the day a crucial piece of mail gets delivered to West's office–"

"What does the bloody postman–"

"–specifically, the billing statement for my little brother's credit card. That Swiss jerk maxed it out to the limit! Bastard even had the nerve to call – and reversed charges, the little fuck – to complain about it!"

"Oh." Arthur made an odd sound that was not in any way sympathetic, but sounded more like muffled laughter. "How bad is it?"

Gilbert shuddered. His brother had a _huge _credit limit and his gut told him that this time, nothing would save him from Ludwig's wrath. No embarrassing pictures, no amount of blackmail material, hell – not even if he actually scored the winning sudden death goal for Germany in the World Cup final. Oh no. _Nothing. _"It's the 'I need to stay away from West for at least a week' sort of bad," he admitted. His only hope was to stay out of sight until his brother had cooled down somewhat.

"Poor little thing. Go to the frog's then. Or Antonio's."

"That French loser's not talking to me at the moment – or maybe he just can't talk with that split lip – and Antonio's still busy trying to apologise to that bad-tempered Italian brat. I can't barge in there interrupting his stupid I Love Lovi moments, not after that last time when he shoved that ax in my face," he grumbled. "Besides, their homes are the first places West'll check."

"True."

"So can I head over there?"

"No. Try someone else."

"They'll just call West to haul me home. Ah screw it, I'm just gonna head over there whether you like it or not."

"What makes you think that _I_ won't call your brother to let him know where you are? Or throw you out myself?"

"You won't because I know you want these pictures."

There was a long pause. "Pictures?"

Gilbert grinned. Arthur was just _so_ easy to manipulate. "Of that French loser. Getting his sorry ass kicked."

"You already emailed me those."

"Not all of them. Plenty more where those came from. Little Feli's really good at taking pictures, you know. There's this one shot where you can see Francis' eyes just bugging out when he gets this uppercut right in the–"

Arthur harrumphed, cutting him off. "I absolutely detest you, you know that?"

Gilbert snickered. "So can I come over then?"

"Did I mention how much I find you annoying?"

"Yeah. I have videos too, you know."

Arthur snorted. "Two days."

"Three, and I'll even cook my own meals," Gilbert countered hastily. That last time he went over to Arthur's for lunch was just an absolutely painful experience. "I'll bring beer and chips for everyone too!" he added.

_"Crisps,"_ Arthur automatically corrected.

"Whatever."

"Fine, three days. And if my brothers try to kill you, I'm not going to interfere."

"Deal."

--x--

Ludwig leaned back in his chair and stretched, deciding that he deserved a short break from the amount of emails in his inbox and the pile of paperwork on his desk. It was almost time for lunch anyway.

Theoretically he could work from home; quite a number of his fellow nations were doing so, thanks to the miracle of modern technology. However, trying to get any work done at home with Gilbert around is an exercise in futility, not with all the distraction and noise from the man's constant pestering, horribly off-key singing or laughing like a hyena on LSD. No, it was far easier to actually commute to the office the old-fashioned way to get some actual work done.

Speaking of Gilbert, his brother seemed to have slipped back to his usual routine this morning. Namely trudging back to bed after breakfast, which also had gone back to normal; a situation involving Ludwig's car keys being held hostage and Gilbert demanding for a ransom of hot pancakes. At least Gilbert had stopped using – or rather, abusing – the strange English expressions he had learnt from Arthur.

Perhaps he should check Gilbert's blog, just in case his brother had somehow started another inane project. He turned to his computer and tapped a few keys to find that Gilbert had blogged a new entry, but it simply consisted of pictures of the football game on Saturday. Some of their colleagues must have emailed his brother the pictures they had taken.

He was amused when he noticed that Lovino had not replied to the comment he made on yesterday's entry, but several other people had, as well as made other comments about the new pictures posted. Gilbert dutifully replied to all of them, except for comments from Ivan. Ludwig shook his head and chuckled.

He barely had enough time to switch windows when his secretary entered his office to bring him his mail, efficiently sorted out for his convenience. Magazine subscriptions; letters from various government agencies and NGOs, a certain DVD he ordered from a catalogue – oh god, he must have accidentally asked the company to mail it to his office instead of his home address, thank goodness the package was discreet because he really did _not _want the people at work to know he was into Certain Things With Leather Whips; bills–

Strange, the envelope from the credit card company seemed to be thicker than usual. Probably had some extra pamphlets about some ridiculous new promotion stuffed in it. A total waste of paper and resources, he noted in disapproval.

Ludwig shrugged. He would deal with his mail later; now he had to figure out this claims form from a bunch of BND employees regarding recent surveillance operations in Italy and Spain before he signed it. He could not recall requesting any special assignments.

But first, there was something else he needed to do. He went back to Gilbert's newest blog entry and clicked on one of the pictures posted; the one of him hugging Gilbert when his brother had scored the winning goal. He wondered if Feliciano was the one who had taken the picture. He was not surprised if it were, for the Italian was undoubtedly talented in painting, so it was natural that such talent would also be applicable in photography as well. It was a great picture, he thought; it had captured the mood perfectly, both brothers grinning happily in triumph at the camera.

A few more clicks, and he was done. "There," Ludwig muttered to himself, "it's a good thing he'll never see this, since I'd never hear the end of it." He leaned back in his chair and nodded in approval. Satisfied with his new desktop wallpaper, he went back to his paperwork.

Somewhere else in Europe, Gilbert sneezed.

**- THE END -**

* * *

**Author's note: **This piece was brought to you by one fine day of watching Hetalia and Football Factory back to back, when a certain someone had the cheek to wonder what it would be like for some of the Hetalia cast to play in the most inane footy game in history _and_ bully me into writing it.

Retarded brother relationships are so fun to write.

Thanks for all the reviews, favourites, PMs and comments. Hope you enjoyed reading this.


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